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KG Sep 2016
We drink wine
As the weary wings of the dove
Labor over restless graves
Weaving between the carnival cruises
Drifting along the red canal

Three hundred cubits long,
Fifty wide and thirty tall
Rivers red overflow
The cypress whip cracks
Licking the ****** hide
With a serrated tongue

Ripped from gnawed *******; Raw
From the desperate lips of brothers and sisters.
Rivers red overflow
With the whimpers of last breaths
Muted by the blade of violent delight
And teeth grinding machines

We sit in our squeaking rubber boots
Cutlery clinks and clacks, saws, severs, slice.
Rivers red overflow
With an anguished unholy
Screeching sound
Deaf are our saintly ears

We drink wine
As the weary dove
Returns empty beaked
Once more to his perch
And preens his scarlet feathers
KG Mar 2016
Mother tucks me in at night, but she knows I cannot sleep
Some nights I hear the shouts
Of evil men with empty glasses
Marching down the streets

Other nights I lie awake with hands pressed to my ears
Father says it’s just a storm
But rain doesn’t explode?
I try to douse the flames with tears

Some nights I lie awake, tormented by my mind
Why have my friends vanished?
Why did they have to wear a star?
Why are people so unkind?

Sometimes I hear a steam engine churning in the night
I wonder where it goes
But every time I ask
No one ever seems to know
KG Feb 2016
I found no comfort in the soft cotton of his tattered grey-tshirt.
They say after someone dies you find solace in their belongs:
The socks he used to leave on bedroom floor,
His worn leather jacket,
The moth eaten t-shirts you had once begged him to throw out.
Somehow these items become … sacred?
Yet no one tells you what to do
When the ragged t-shirts no longer smell of his spiced cologne,
But sag damply with the smell of your sweat,
And the holes are no longer made by flittering moths,
But burned with tears.
KG Feb 2016
The ticking of an antique clock,
The smell of unwashed dishes,
A sinewy hand curled around the heart
Small slits of sunlight Peaked through the blind’s half shut eyelids.
Burrowed in the shadows,
She sunk into the old armchair.
Ink scrawled papers littered the room,
Resting gloomily on the coffee stained carpet and dust flecked tables.
The words would not come.
Her notepad ---- a casket for the desiccated shells
Of words that carried no life.
  Jan 2016 KG
Joel M Frye
sacred silence hangs on angel wings
blessing, watching over wakened night
fluttering on the screen, drawn to the light of
consciousness, the truth of darkened mornings.
strong, alone, remotely flipping through the
channels of the restless bar-room soul
charles bukowski, angry, drunk and droll;
pavement wisdom yanked inside, renewed and
resurrected.  rolling stone lays open,
having sprung the latent-night messiahs
preaching to insomniacal choir.
cryptic muse's recipe for coping:
be consumed, entombed, re-wombed by
worshiping and feeding written fire.
KG Jan 2016
Rockabye babies
Our mothers our dead
In the tree tops
We lay down our heads

When the wind blows
They shut all the doors
The cradle will rock
Our clothes are all torn

When the bow breaks
We’re hungry, alone
The cradle will fall
We wished for a family, but now we’re too tall
Currently working on a collection entitled "The Cradle Will Fall". This is my opening piece, inspired by a friend very close to my heart.
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