grey sky welcome
a downpour hoped for

a little excitement
on the rain scale

an old friend
not seen in awhile

carving the runes
a stone tablet

the grave marker
of a stranger.

seventeen

im ******* bored
blasting hyperpop in my ears
screaming in fields and
writing on walls

sixteen

today
and yesterday
every day
all the same

fifteen

wheres my ******* break?
i spend time, i earn it back
some things cost a lot of time
some things, not so much

fourteen
thirteen
twelve
eleven
ten
nine
eight
seven
six
fi­ve
four
three
two
one

and im back awake again
the time flies like planes
how did i get here?
i don't know, but im here to stay

Oh little man,
You land where you fall,
You really have no plan at all,
No sense of loss,
No fear of dying,
How brave you are,
So good at lying,
You felt that loss,
Like a severed leg,
You fear the unknown,
And the voice in you head,
And now…you are lame,
You limp,
Sometimes crawl,
You bleed everywhere,
You land where you fall
BLCostello©2025

Fingers, are they not rays of sunshine,
or at least so delicate,
your finest lover, if her or his were crushed?
is it not so much more a travesty?

These simple vines, strumming until they're embedded,
beating with a soft but forceful start,
all for the finality of a drop,
that begins where the heart stops.

a goodbye to eyes, an eternal recess from the light,
you **** the chorus in our minds,
hoping that either one of us finds,
you again.

Trying to teach you that can't is a broken spell,
a collection of words smothered in a fist,
deprived of touching can, before its magic had its knell,

The progenitors of these phrases drown in its graces,
they become the it of their own undoing,
husband and wife to guttural utterances,

Cloaked is the mirror with a window on full display,
smiling through your reflection, praying through convection,
seeking the angel's wings buried in the ground,

It's all dirt beneath their lips,
give them a spear they fancy it a fork,
a hook for their purposes,

There is no can't besides what is in there eyes,

There is no can't and above the bird flies,

There is no can't and here we find ourselves in our minds,

The law to them is of designs,
the life is what they inscribe,
there is no can't, but they can't.

I won't know until it's that way, that it will ultimately be,
some call these lines vapid, and ultimately that's what they'll be,

Smoke or vapor, hard drugs or paperwork, smiles or kisses,
lies or tales of false blisses, perhaps a wise story to gain a misses,

fingernails or the rope, both burn and can end hope,
one cries, the other won't even know,

ducks flying by, quack, quack, quack,
such a silly think can be such a needed crack,

***, drugs, and euphemisms,
The mister with a pen revealed a quack,

A trench coat full of waddly things,
administering precisely what it's like it seems,

care to mind only the seamstress, with thousand lake eyes,
and a beauty like you've never seen, pay only to her your mind.

175

I have never seen “Volcanoes”—
But, when Travellers tell
How those old—phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still—

Bear within—appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men—

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place—

If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome—
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy “Pompeii”!
To the Hills return!

The coastal winds set all our
orchard tree leaves dancing,
vibrating like music in the air.
That same clean breeze on my
face generates a smile, while
offering the slight scent of the
oceans salty splendor.

In my mind in color, behind closed
eyes I can clearly see my beach, the
waves, sand, rocks, all the winged
creatures soaring and wind floating
on the westerly air currents. I could
even hear their calls to each other,
and the muted laughter of human
children at play. The sight of people's
dogs free running the beach and
cavorting in the shallow surf.

An hour and a half drive each way,
taken many times over most of my
lifetime, seeking that view and being
rewarded by it. Familiar as the faces
of my beloved now grown children
and nearly as comforting to gaze upon.

Yes, I could make the drive, but even
that gets harder these days, as most
everything does. But why drive it,
when all I need do is close my eyes,
point my nose up into the breeze and
embrace that beach in my still vivid
mind's eye, while these technicolor
memories last, before they all fade
to black.