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she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins
To Thomas, Keeper of the Bones

You cradle the restless marrow of midnight musings— those skeletal whispers that rattle beneath the skin of sleep. Where others dream and forget, you scribble resurrection on the back of darkness.

Your pen is a lantern in the fog of sirens, a net cast deep into the kraken’s yawn. You fish for ghosts and feed the starving soul with lines that bleed and bloom.

Bravo again, you old conjurer— you’ve made the bones dance.

M.
For dear Thomas W Case conjurer of words, rattler of bones
and poetic supremo
Of "Writing Through Storms"
words pull strings
and evoke the shape of things
there are no words for
 Mar 16 Pepper Dove
rick
4am
 Mar 16 Pepper Dove
rick
4am
…at four in the morning,
the room was sharp and silent
through the stillness of the dark
and yet, I sang those old songs
swaying in the cold wind
with bottle upon my breath
as I dreamt of green birds
and the lonely white lotus
that kept fluttering
into my scratched head
while coming apart at the seams
with tears of sadness
I sat and pondered
where they all went:
those little caramel ladies of brown doom
with novocaine souls and enamel bodies;
you gave me the liveliest moments
even when you brought me
to the brink of death,
you have liberated me during
my most shackled state of mind,
you spilled the truth when you
told me, “I could never be reached.”
and therefore I must come to terms
with the absence of your warmth
as the green birds have flown
into concrete skies
and the white lotus has shriveled
into a curling black mass
I sway with the wind,
rising the bottle
and belting out
those old songs
in a room so
sharp and silent
at four in the morning.
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