"O where are you going?" said reader to rider,
"That valley is fatal when furnaces burn,
Yonder's the midden whose odors will madden,
That gap is the grave where the tall return."

"O do you imagine," said fearer to farer,
"That dusk will delay on your path to the pass,
Your diligent looking discover the lacking
Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?"

"O what was that bird," said horror to hearer,
"Did you see that shape in the twisted trees?
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,
The spot on your skin is a shocking disease?"

"Out of this house" ‚ said rider to reader,
"Yours never will" ‚ said farer to fearer,
"They're looking for you" ‚ said hearer to horror,
As he left them there, as he left them there.

Read hp every second day or so
and see a few poems never move off the trend page.

Maybe my imagination, but seems they are stuck there.
Some poems stay put, like glue that won't come off,
Eyes get tired of same old.

Is the page stuck or frozen....?
Would like to see the page refreshed.

Revving through streets to prove a shine nobody can take to grave.
Wilde said something bright once in an irretrievably lost spot:
No good trying to be another, when all's taken.

Well, depends on what the currency is
if you're a giver or a getter.
If it is a gift for the getter, what gift?
Something forgiving in the bargain
and later forgetting to return favors.

My mother kept a singing bird, just for herself
In the kitchen
By the door
In a cage.

She fed it herself
and talked to it
at 68.
What woman speaks to a bird,
perhaps one who knows
and understands.

All the peaks and trills,
the notes of song
she heard.
She knew its moods
and tunes, she sang along.
Their ritual of conversing
while washing up
and dry with dishcloth
or cooking
or baking her special recipe
apple pie.

Every night, she covered the cage
with a blanket
to keep warm the singing bird and
so the kitchen light would
not disturb
and in the morning,
she took it off again.

Then with silence broken
by welcome twitter,
she would tell
her grey and black wonder
of her plans whilst at chores.
When at elevenses,
she sat near the door
with hot tea and cookie,
she'd offer crumbs
stare ahead, a dreamy smile.

One day the bird died
and into her dishcloth,
she cried.

on the ghost of a blood moon
returning the bones --
to the sea.

all over this globe, we crush the worlds
of so many people --
us, our family.

I may be dead next time it comes
beating an old drum --
I sing again.