Way over my head the ladle
that made astronomy tilts
as the shower of meteors
of which we have all been
warned comes to fruition.
 
It's glitter empties into
the black sea of darkness
flickering until each is
a dead bulb with a broken
filament.
 
I walk forward,
my attention wanders
long enough for
the deadly strike of
a spilled star not quite
incinerated on its way
down.
 
And so it goes,
another lonely poet
joins the society
of the dead
without the chance
to murmur one last
hackneyed metaphor.
-James C. Allen

Vaguely I recalled
something crawling,
clawing its way into
the bed from the bottom
end.
 
I thought I was dreaming,
until it worked its way
up beside me.
I must have thought
it to be one of the
cats except they
were all dead.
 
In the morning
I awakened to something
scratching at my shoulder.
I slowly peeled back the
comforter to discover
a small sleeping possum
enjoying the warmth
of my bed.
 
My blood curdling scream
ushered him out of the room,
and yes, they can move
quickly.
Disappearing into another
of the bedrooms,
he could not be located.
 
Left with my fear, the indelible
sight of a long grey naked tail
and the inability to locate
the marauder,
I removed a pistol from the
safe, closed the door,
and went back to bed. 
 
The next day after a fruitless search,
one have a heart trap was purchased,
bated with tuna fish. 
In the morning, 2 am, wham;
one possum secured in cage.
 
Come daybreak a fussy but
unharmed possum was released
far from the house.  I felt like 
an SPCA chairperson.  After all,
even possums deserve a second
chance.
-James C. Allen

The night is stark
gone blind by the failure
of heaven's bulbs to ignite.
 
Nothing but a giant cataract
obliging an aperture the experience
of fulfilling the opposite
for which she was designed.
 
The usual landmarks fail,
as they fall without indication
the horizon has changed
in our sightless minds.
 
Our fingers braille the air
searching for something
familiar but touch has
followed suit.
 
We strain to hear,
dependent on sounds
for orientation.
 
Anxiety ushers fear,
without our senses
it makes no difference
what exists or does not.
 
The sky is an ornament
without magic to enlighten,
like Christmas with the fuse
blown from the colorful
display.
-James C. Allen