I. Song of the Beggars
"O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges
To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma on the platinum benches
With somersaults and fireworks, the roast and the smacking kisses"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And Garbo's and Cleopatra's wits to go astraying,
In a feather ocean with me to go fishing and playing,
Still jolly when the **** has burst himself with crowing"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And to stand on green turf among the craning yellow faces
Dependent on the chestnut, the sable, the Arabian horses,
And me with a magic crystal to foresee their places"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And this square to be a deck and these pigeons canvas to rig,
And to follow the delicious breeze like a tantony pig
To the shaded feverless islands where the melons are big"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And these shops to be turned to tulips in a garden bed,
And me with my crutch to thrash each merchant dead
As he pokes from a flower his bald and wicked head"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And a hole in the bottom of heaven, and Peter and Paul
And each smug surprised saint like parachutes to fall,
And every one-legged beggar to have no legs at all"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.

Spring 1935

II.
O lurcher-loving collier, black as night,
Follow your love across the smokeless hill;
Your lamp is out, the cages are all still;
Course for heart and do not miss,
For Sunday soon is past and, Kate, fly not so fast,
For Monday comes when none may kiss:
Be marble to his soot, and to his black be white.

June 1935

III.
Let a florid music praise,
The flute and the trumpet,
Beauty's conquest of your face:
In that land of flesh and bone,
Where from citadels on high
Her imperial standards fly,
Let the hot sun
Shine on, shine on.

O but the unloved have had power,
The weeping and striking,
Always: time will bring their hour;
Their secretive children walk
Through your vigilance of breath
To unpardonable Death,
And my vows break
Before his look.

February 1936

IV.
Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.

Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other's necks
Inert and vaguely sad.

What hidden worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.

March 1936

V.
Fish in the unruffled lakes
Their swarming colors wear,
Swans in the winter air
A white perfection have,
And the great lion walks
Through his innocent grove;
Lion, fish and swan
Act, and are gone
Upon Time's toppling wave.

We, till shadowed days are done,
We must weep and sing
Duty's conscious wrong,
The Devil in the clock,
The goodness carefully worn
For atonement or for luck;
We must lose our loves,
On each beast and bird that moves
Turn an envious look.

Sighs for folly done and said
Twist our narrow days,
But I must bless, I must praise
That you, my swan, who have
All the gifts that to the swan
Impulsive Nature gave,
The majesty and pride,
Last night should add
Your voluntary love.

March 1936

VI. Autumn Song
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on.

Whispering neighbors left and right
Daunt us from our true delight,
Able hands are forced to freeze
Derelict on lonely knees.

Close behind us on our track,
Dead in hundreds cry Alack,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Scrawny through a plundered wood,
Trolls run scolding for their food,
Owl and nightingale are dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Clear, unscalable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold, cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.

March 1936

VII.
Underneath an abject willow,
Lover, sulk no more:
Act from thought should quickly follow.
What is thinking for?
Your unique and moping station
Proves you cold;
Stand up and fold
Your map of desolation.

Bells that toll across the meadows
From the sombre spire
Toll for these unloving shadows
Love does not require.
All that lives may love; why longer
Bow to loss
With arms across?
Strike and you shall conquer.

Geese in flocks above you flying.
Their direction know,
Icy brooks beneath you flowing,
To their ocean go.
Dark and dull is your distraction:
Walk then, come,
No longer numb
Into your satisfaction.

March 1936

VIII.
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my friend, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of the migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

April 1936

IX.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

April 1936

X.
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; "O Johnny, let's play":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Matinee Charity Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
"Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver or golden silk gown;
"O John I'm in heaven," I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
"O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.

April 1937

XI. Roman Wall Blues
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

October 1937

XII.
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like classical stuff?
Does it stop when one wants to quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn' in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on the door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

January 1938

Keep me around long enough.
Just to play me.

Love me enough.
Just to hate me.

Spit venom.
Words do hurt.
Actions now are over rated.
Don’t mean to be curt.
Looks don’t mean ****.
Personality is just as worse.

People can make themselves seem like a dream.
In actuality, they’re a fein addicted to killin feelings.
Something said don’t.
I didn’t listen.
Now my heart is missing.

**** tears, crying won’t change it.
My emotions, I had to hang them.
Tired of being weak.
Tired of the way you speak.

Babe, eat your words.
Bite the bullet.
Kiss the curb.
Swallow your nerves.
Hate my words.

Chocolate kisses.
Afternoon oral.
Nothing left of me is moral.
My soul is tainted and soiled.
I can’t help it, you’re spoiled.

You rack up the hearts.
Kind words slide from your lips.
Hip to hip.
Lips on lips.
This is it.

Who is she.
She is not I.
I shall not cry.
I always wanted that to be me.
Yet, I enjoy being free.
Not being trapped.
Not being suffocated.
I enjoy my dark soul now.
It leaks sarcasm and hatred like a rain cloud.

So for right now.
I’m burning your book.
Burning your lies.
Severing our ties.
Giving truth to your lies.

Taking back what’s mine.
Swallowing my emotions like the devils potion.
Once six feet under yet now
I’m on cloud 115 floating.
I’m high with no smoking.
I’m moving on just like the current of the ocean.

And currently, over you.
and done moping.

So done moping.

Oh, to be a poet
one must be so emotional.
Well, no. Not necessarily.
We're only really capable
of understanding feeling,
investigating our emotions.
It doesn't mean we cry all day,
or pass nights in dark rooms moping.

We have lives; come home from work
or get in on a night bus back;
it's from all this experience
that we can draw out fact.
From mundane to extraordinary
we will become inspired.
Our strength is versatility
and life ignights our fires.

So, we do not all have to be
constricted to intensity
-to ponder oh-so seriously
on what it simply means 'to be'.
We can be strong, flirty, or mean
or to the brim with confidence.
For, what does 'to be a poet' mean,
if you cannot explore yourself?

A  MOONLIT  KNIGHT.

Fern rises and looks out of her window.
Silver shards of moonlight lick the lawn.
She who once felt gay and oh so joyous,
Now feels oh so desolate and lorn.

Will she ever find true love again?
She before has never felt so low.
Should she, for love, continue searching?
Or give up by ending it here and now?

Outside, all is monochrome and still,
Inside, Fern is still and very sad.
Will she feel happiness again?
Who knows how long she’ll feel this bad?

At the stroke of midnight, there’s a change,
There seems to be a disturbance in the air.
Gradually something seems to materialise
On the lawn, a shape, come from where?

It is a knight, armoured cap-à-pie,
On a horse, for war caparisoned.
From his saddle hangs a jousting shield,
A silver moon on it is designed.

A white plume is mounted on his helmet,
On his lance a white pennon is tied.
The knight looks at her, at her window,
Silently he sits and does bide.

He raises a gauntleted hand and beckons,
Should she stay in, or venture out?
In her white nightdress she goes downstairs,
Deciding to see what it’s all about.

Cautiously she opens up the door,
And putting her head out, looks outside.
The knight still sits, patiently waiting.
Fern wonders what might now betide.

Slipping on an old pair of shoes,
She slowly walks over to the knight.
In her wake she leaves a dewy trail,
And as she nears, the knight fades from sight.

Fern wonders what this all might mean,
Is she dreaming or is she awake?
Is, what she has seen, been real?
Or has she made a big mistake?

Then, whilst standing there in wonder,
She happens to look down at the ground.
Where the knight was, the grass is trampled,
As though a horse has curvetted around.

Then she hears a sound from behind her,
And startled, Fern quickly turns round.
Her house no longer seems to be there,
In its stead, a keep there is stound.

The sound she hears is a woman calling,
“My Lady, please come back here inside.
You shouldn’t be alone out in the dark,
Please come back and in your chamber bide.”

The woman, from a window, looks at Fern.
“Excuse me, are you addressing me?”
Fern directs the question at the woman,
Who replies to her, “Of course, my Lady.”

“’Tis not safe out at this time of night,
And you are in your night attire dight,
So if someone, of you, catches sight,
You’ll not be seen in a good light.”

Before Fern can think of what to say,
She hears the sound of a galloping horse.
It is getting nearer in the dark.
She hopes that things will now not get worse.

“My Lady, quickly, please get you inside,
Do not just stand there as if dazed.
Hurry now, before it it too late.”
Fern, though, does stand there amazed.

Approaching through the night is a horse,
The one she’d seen before on her lawn,
The same knight is seated on its back,
Though now the pennant on his lance is torn.

The horse stops right next to Fern,
And caracoles to bring them face-to-face.
The knight lowers his lance to show his pennant,
Which Fern sees is a torn fragment of white lace.

The knight again does sit in stilly silence,
He waits, and does not make any demand.
Then lowers his lance to touch her nightdress’s hem,
When suddenly, Fern does understand.

The hem of her nightdress is lace trimmed,
So Fern bends, and seizes it in hand.
Then with a sharp tug she tears it off,
Removing it in a single strand.

The knight raises up his lance higher,
The old lace, from the lance, Fern does remove.
Then ties the furbelow on very tightly,
Saying, “Please take this favour with my love.”

The knight dips his lance in salute,
Then turns his horse, back down the road to face.
His spurs lightly touch the horse’s flanks,
Which straight away gallops off at pace.

Fern walks across to the keep.
The woman opens the main door wide.
Fern steps across the threshold,
And now, in her own house is inside.

She turns to look back across the lawn,
Which is still lit by the silver moon’s light.
The lawn is now smooth and unblemished,
With no marks caused by the steed of the knight.

Fern goes upstairs to her bedroom.
Has this all been a dream ere now?
Then, as she gets back into bed,
She sees her nightdress lacks its furbelow.

Fern remembers her nightdress has a pocket,
And into it, her hand she does place,
Then, to her utter amazement,
She pulls out a fragment of torn lace.

Fern wonders at what’s just happened,
Was it real, or only in her mind?
If it was just her imagination,
Why has she been able, the fragment to find?

Eventually Fern drifts off to sleep,
Waking with the chorus of the dawn.
Although she doesn’t think she has changed,
She no longer feels quite so forlorn.

“Why does the knight appear to me?
Why has he only come at night?
Is he trying to find out if he’s wanted?
Is he trying to make something right?”

Later on that day Fern walks to town,
And heads for the library to find,
If there are any references to knights
That might help to ease her troubled mind.

Fern does find a story of a knight,
Who had a moon device on his shield.
He was very brave in the fight,
And to a foe would never yield.

He had been commissioned to take a message,
To a lord, by order of the king.
It was to be delivered urgently,
And he was not to stop for anything.

He was nearly there when something happened.
By the side of the highway lay a maid.
Being a chivalrous knight, he should have stopped,
Instead, he carried on, not giving aid.

He delivered the message to the lord,
And later was seated, drinking in the hall,
When there entered in some serving men,
Carrying on their shoulders a shrouded pall.

They lay down their burden on the floor,
And without having said a word,
Reverently uncovered the face of a body.
It was the lady of the lord.

Then entered in another knight,
Who stepped up to the lord, and said,
“On our way here, we found your lady.
She was wounded, and now, alas, she’s dead.”

The other knight continued with his story,
“Seemingly, she had been robbed and *****.
There was no sign of the perpetrators,
We think they’d been disturbed, and then escaped.”

“Perhaps if we had managed to come sooner,
We might have been there to prevent this crime.
However, it seems the Fates conspired against us,
So we were not there to help in time.”

The Knight of the Moon sat there horror-struck,
He knew if he’d not been so keen to arrive,
Though helped, as his conscience had dictated,
The lady might yet even be alive.

Instead of speaking up, he stayed silent,
And never about this matter spoke a word.
Then he rose, and gave his condolence,
And went out from the presence of the lord.

The lady was removed to lie in state,
The Knight of the Moon went, to look at her face.
He knelt there in silent prayer awhile,
Then, from her dress, removed a length of lace.

He accoutred himself in his full armour,
Then rode from the keep that very night.
He left a note, stating his omission,
And of him, no-one ever saw a sight.

Fern is very sad to read this story.
What had then been in the knight’s mind?
Had he ridden off to end his disgrace,
Or the perpetrators, gone to find?

Fern now makes her thoughtful way home,
Hoping he’d found surcease from his torment,
Wondering what to him had befallen,
And if, for his lapse, he’d made atonement.

Fern reaches home rather tired,
So lies down on her bed, then falls asleep.
She dreams of knights in armour and fair damsels,
And jousting in the grounds of the keep.

Eventually, Fern wakens from her slumber.
She lies for a moment in her bed.
Yet again she thinks about her dream.
Was it real, or made up in her head.

“Perhaps,” she thinks, “I’m just on the rebound,
Because I’m still in mourning for my love.
And being of a romantic nature,
Dreaming of knights this does this prove.”

“Knights should have been chivalrous and kind,
Treating damsels in distress with care.
Except, when a knight I truly needed,
As it happened, there was not one there.”

“On that night, if we’d had some help,
My husband might still be alive.
Now, he has been taken from me,
And I feel that alone I cannot thrive.”

“However, life must go on as usual,
I should carry on, if just for him,
And so, perhaps, I should cease this moping,
And try to get on with my life again.”

So Fern gets up, refreshed from her nap,
Then decides, after eating, to go out.
That she must now get herself together,
Fern is not left in any doubt.

“Perhaps a short drive into the country,
And to stretch my legs, a gentle walk.
However, I will get on much quicker,
If I do not, to myself, talk.”

Fern puts on her coat and gets her bag,
Then goes out and walks to her car.
This is the first time that she’s driven
Since losing him, so she’ll not go too far.

Fern unlocks her car, and sits inside,
Then she is overcome with fear.
“Suppose, now, I am too scared to drive.
Perhaps I’d feel better if help was near.”

“Come on Fern, pull yourself together!
Feel the fear and do it anyway!
If you don’t do it now, then when?
Start the car, and let’s be on our way.”

So having given herself a little lecture,
Fern belts up, and pulls out of her drive.
Then, not really knowing where she’s headed,
Off she goes to see where she’ll arrive.

Fern motors out into the country,
And following a lane, drives up a hill.
At the top she parks and gets out.
Everything seems peaceful and so still.

She aimlessly ambles round the hill top,
And reads a notice saying it was a fort.
Then, Fern drifts off into a daydream,
And views the panorama without thought.

In her mind’s eye she sees a castle,
Decorated with many banners bright.
A tournament seems to be in progress,
And the winner is, of course, her moonlit knight.

Eventually, Fern becomes aware,
That she has gone some distance from her car.
So she slowly makes her way back to it.
She hadn’t meant to walk quite so far.

The shades of night are now falling fast,
And everything is starting to look grey.
So Fern unlocks her car and gets inside,
Ready to be getting on her way.

Slowly, she starts off down the hill,
The lane is very narrow with high hedges,
The moon is hidden behind some lowering clouds,
The track’s overgrown with grass and sedges.

Somehow, she’s gone a different way.
In the dark, everything seems wrong.
Fern is now starting to get worried,
And wonders why the track seems so long.

Eventually, she debouches onto a road,
Though she is not sure exactly where.
Fern is by now really anxious,
Then suddenly, gets an awful scare.

It looks just like the road they had been travelling,
When her husband lost control of the car.
It had skidded, spun and then rolled over,
The door had opened, and Fern had been flung far.

Her husband had still been trapped inside,
When it suddenly erupted into flame.
Fern could only stand and helplessly watch,
All the while loudly screaming his name.

No-one was around at that moment,
Perhaps someone might have pulled him out.
Then, as other motorists arrived,
They phoned for help, while listening to Fern shout.

Quite soon, a fire-engine came,
Closely followed by an ambulance.
The fire was eventually put out,
And Fern driven off still in a trance.

That had been several weeks ago,
And Fern has not since passed that place.
Now, it looks as if she is there,
And will, her darkest moment, have to face.

Then, to her horror, she sees a shape,
Dimly lit by her headlamps’ light.
It is a fallen motorcycle,
And the rider’s lying by it, just in sight.

Fern stops her car, and runs up to him.
Perhaps she can be of some aid.
As she approaches, the man gets up,
While a voice behind her says, “Don’t be afraid.”

“You just do exactly as we tell you.
We only want your money, and some fun.
Then, you can be on your way.
Do not even think of trying to run.”

The first man picks up the bike,
And pushes it to the road’s side.
The other man comes up close to Fern,
Who wonders again what might betide.

The wind blows the clouds across the sky,
Bringing the bright moon into sight.
The road that ’til then was hidden in darkness,
Is now lit with shards of silver light.

Fern then hears the sound of a horse,
Approaching through the wild and windy night.
The jingling of trappings can be heard,
And Fern thinks that now all will be right.

The courser slowly comes into view,
With the same knight seated on its back.
His lance is not couched, it’s held *****,
And the reins are loosely held, and quite slack.

Casually the steed comes to a stop,
And lowers his head to nibble at some grass.
The men, uncertain, both watch the knight,
While each wonders what might now pass.

One of them goes up to the bike,
And opens up the box on the back,
Then takes from it two crash helmets,
And a length of chain, which dangles slack.

He throws a helmet to his crony,
And they each fasten one upon their head.
Then they both turn to face the knight,
Who has not a word utteréd.

The one with the chain lifts it up,
And menacingly starts to whirl it around,
Then slowly walks towards the knight,
Who casually sits, not giving ground.

The other man reaches into his pocket,
Pulling out a wicked flick-knife,
And then, letting the blade spring open,
Prepares to join in with the strife.

He circles round the knight to the rear,
As the other man comes in from the side,
When the knight drops his lance into rest,
And suddenly, off he does ride.

He charges away from the men,
And gallops right past Fern at full speed.
Then, his lance aimed at the motorcycle,
He urges on his racing steed.

The lance pierces into the fuel tank,
And knocks the bike over in the road.
Petrol gushes out in a torrent,
And soon over the tarmac it has flowed.

The lance is broken in twain, the knight drops it,
And very quickly turns his horse about,
Then as he gallops back past the bike,
Both of the men start to shout.

Sparks from the horse’s hoofs come flying,
Igniting the petrol on the road.
Fern gives a shrill scream in panic,
Thinking that the bike might now explode.

The man with the chain wildly flails it,
Desperately trying to hit the horse’s head.
The knight strikes the man with a morning-star,
Who drops down, just like one who’s dead.

The knight then dismounts, drawing his sword,
And silently strides towards the other man,
Who flings away his knife, and starts running,
Fleeing just as fast as ever he can.

Fern sees the fallen man get up,
Rising groggily to stagger to his feet.
He looks at them, and then he turns away,
Slowly stumbling off, not yet too fleet.

Suddenly, the night becomes quite dark.
Clouds again, do the moon obscure.
Fern turns to try to thank the knight.
He’s gone, though she now feels secure.

Confidently she walks towards the bike,
And sees the lance by the fire’s light.
Fern bends and unties the lace from the lance,
And slowly walks back with it through the night.

She reaches her car, and gets inside,
Then starts driving off to get back home.
Belatedly thinking of her husband,
And wondering what next to her will come.

Safely arriving home, Fern parks the car,
And getting out, she sees on the lawn,
A pavilion has there been erected,
Turned rosaceous by the coming dawn.

The horse is also there, grazing tackless,
And by the entrance hangs a well-known targe.
Fern carefully goes and looks inside.
The pavilion’s quite small, not very large.

She sees the knight, kneeling on the ground,
His head bowed, as like one in prayer.
He holds his sword in front, just like a cross,
Of her, he seems not to be aware.

Quietly, Fern withdraws from the pavilion,
Then thinks, of the horse, to get a sight.
It’s nowhere to be seen, she turns around,
The pavilion’s now bathed in golden light.

As Fern stares at it in wonder,
See thinks that she can hear an ætherial sound,
Like a choir of heavenly angels singing,
And the pavilion vanishes from the ground.

Fern sees only a sword, stuck in the lawn,
And hanging from a nearby tree, the shield.
Then reliving what occurred in the night,
To tears of relief, Fern does yield.

She wonders if the knight has been translated,
Having now atoned for his mistake,
And Fern hopes that he’s managed to find peace,
For risking his life for her sake.

Fern hangs the sword above her bed,
And fastens the shield over her door.
She feels much more confidant now,
And is able to do so much more.

Sometimes though, when the moon is full,
Fern goes outside at midnight,
Carrying in her hand a strip of lace,
And seems just to vanish from sight.

At that time, if anyone was around,
They might then hear an unusual sound,
As though a fully accoutred

Tell me why it seems like the walls are closing in
Tell me why my hopes they're stretched far and thin
Tell me why my dreams still struggle in this fight
Tell me why every time I draw air but it feels so tight.

Tell me why in this turmoil my heart does wallow
Tell me why lifes' lessons by the heapfuls I choke to swallow
Tell me why I'm somewhat free but then again I am not
Tell me why I really do have but I haven't really got.

Tell me why I try to sleep many a restless night
Tell me why I am so afraid of many a fearful fright
Tell me why I still feel the way I have felt before
Tell me why I ask many questions which leaves me broken and sore.

Tell me why so much emotions run amok within me
Tell me why I look yet I do not really see
Tell me why despondence is back; it's here to haunt
Tell me why such uncertainties always beckons to taunt.

Tell me why I want more but I am quite contented
Tell me why I have to accept the path I've very much resented
Tell me why I already know but I still keep on asking
Tell me why it seems like the reasons are in every way lacking.

Tell me why I feel so happy but in fact I am so sad
Tell me why it all seems unfair but I have to be glad
Tell me why I found love in the most unfortunate circumstance
Tell me why to a mournful tune I am stuck in dance.

Tell me why my heart feels engorged but I can't release it all
Tell me why I am so scared but I would still want to fall
Tell me why I feel you close when you're farther than far
Tell me why it seems incredulous that we share the same star.

Tell me why I long to give you more when I can't this instant
Tell me why I can feel better but I seem so resistant
Tell me why sometimes I look up and curse at my luck
Tell me why I refuse to focus on courage that I really should pluck.

Tell me why I lay in bed dreaming of a place far away
Tell me why I find myself moping more and more each day
Tell me why I chose to be naive and in fate I do give trust
Tell me why time and time again it just gets ground to dust.

Tell me why I feel so beaten and weak when I should be strong
Tell me why I am so familiar in a place I don't belong
Tell me why I have to live with a mask on my face
Tell me why I feel like a marionette strung up by lace.

Tell me why I dug deep when these words make me cry
Tell me why the tears still trickle when my eyes are dry
Tell me why I share this when I know you would feel bad
Tell me why I would even spout the words that make you sad.

Tell me why these painful wounds I didn't choose to lick
Tell me why I didn't let them heal but instead I would pick
Tell me why I feel as though I am quite addicted
Tell me why it seems like I enjoy the dark I've inflicted.

Tell me why sometimes I question, the things you see in me
Tell me why you've said it many times but I don't really see
Tell me why I haven't drifted far when I should've a while ago
The reason is you; because you have chosen to love me.

An icy storm howled and groaned about me, whipping the trees to and fro in its insatiable wrath. Sheets of rain poured from the murky sky, a torrent of water and wind pummeling my aching body.
I felt so small as I stood in the midst of the raging storm. So small and useless.
What was I but a mere ant, an insignificant worm in the face of this world? How could anything as small as I carry a ripple?
The world would still wage its wars, blind to the evil it was; injustice and oppression practically embroidered into the fabric of existence. Rulers would still dictate and control. The poor citizens would suffer in their poverty as the higher up drowned in their riches. Those who stood up and spoke out against the nobles were persecuted for questioning authority.
And so it seemed to me as if nothing we ever did would make a difference.
Lowering lashes glimmering with dew, I let the rain wash over me.  It seemed an ironic time for a storm, and I wondered if maybe the world was crying—lamenting over what humanity had come to.
“Why are you standing out here amid the rain?”
I took a ragged breath before turning around, blinking water out of my eyes. Eleanor stood behind me, leaning against a jagged pillar and studying me with an inscrutable expression.
“I thought I’d find you out here.” She said and pushed herself off the rock to face me. Her curly dark mass of hair was plastered to her face, and her fierce hazel eyes glimmered with condensation. “Moping won't get you anywhere you know.”
I shook my head at her. “I’m not moping.”
It was easy, easier than it should have been to slip on the masquerade, to look as if there was not a care in the world. The recent ordeals had left me drained and numb.
Eleanor threw her head back and laughed loudly. “I know moping the moment I see it. Now, spit it out.”
I clenched my fists in the pockets of my thick coak. “I am simply debating the best course of action to take from here.”
She grinned humorlessly. “You little liar. I see right past your guise down into your soft little heart. You can't-fool me, Flynn, I’ve seen more in this harsh world than someone twice my age.”
I tried to push the smoldering anger away, but her words sparked an inferno. She had no idea, no idea, of what I have gone through. How dare she make rash assumptions off of her own feeble experiences?
“You know nothing of what I have endured,” I said quietly, eyes flashing as I met her gaze.
Eleanor took a few steps closer until she was nose to nose with me. I could count every freckle on her bronze skin, every eyelash.
“You don’t sit around waiting for things to get better, you do something about it.” She whispered fiercely. “The world won't change itself, things won't just automatically get better. Everything that lasts takes time.”
Eleanor turned around and faced the setting sun; the sky lit up with the hues of the sunset. Her silhouette composed an impressive figure against the horizon, glistening with raindrops from the dull drizzle that now swept over the distant mountains.
“Someday,” she breathed, “you won't have to hide.”
I stared at her, enraptured at the quiet strength that overtook her features as she gazed out into the distance.
Eleanor twisted around again, her face somber. “Someday the world will accept you for who you are. But don’t wait for that day, don’t wait up for them—beat them to it and accept yourself now.”
A small beam of trembling sunlight entered into the suffocating darkness, thawing away at the ice that had slowly taken over within. I felt something I had not felt in a long time.
Hope.
Overwhelming in its promise and almost tangible to the imagination. I knew it was far away, farther than the length of the stars and back. And though everything was against me, though I would be met with opposition and suffering—would anyone else raise their voice for change?
I opened my eyes and found them full of the sun. “To an new dawn.”
Eleanor flashed her teeth in a voracious grin, her eyes full of promise. “To a new future.”
I held my breath at the words I would say; terrified my wish would disappear once uttered aloud. “To a world where those born of darkness, can shine just as bright.”

-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-

i wept for the moping owl

that had blood dripping form her eyes

then at midnight she’ll always cry

“your demons are out why don’t you follow suit”



I’ve always known this night-bird

for the darkness she and i shared

my shows had also known her

together darkness was our only scar



i loved the dark scribbling of poe

that demons may come and demons may go

on the illusive road of Eldorado

like blood melted in December’s snow



no one is ever there you see

behind the garment of your lovely fear

whatever you think is whatever will be

Goodbye Owl, for dawn is near.

in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally  
my mythological birth with corporate death

managing and arranging  my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present  
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail

and in her own sky of miss marry  
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside  that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking  without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin θ of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned

then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire

and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves

the cause of spreading over of the fragrance
from our secret myrobalan to every side of the pillows
is not only such that in the morning
an empty ink-*** says to the rain-water
you are beautiful

it is also remarkable that
coming to our half-articulated  travelling
the writings carved on the granite stone
become very much ashamed also

and  taking the busy market-price of the sun-glass
in the fold of the **** cloth tied at the waist
my both hands are also marked very much
in the omnibus of the dancing-bar

such is just because it is the art and science of navigation
that pastes some earth-wave
having no number-plate
with the public
rolling down  on the mat of the summer

it is impossible
to memorise the history of  those
so much contended-hunger
so much contended-sleep

it is all right that the staff-members
of our vibgyr university are all alive  
but they are the existence of some
bio-data only

arrangement of so much smiles and tears
in the nomenclature of banana-bed of mrs sofia
is not to tell the directionlessness of her fishery products
but if the culture of the wild trees assuming figure
then there remains no separate entity of the rbcs
inside or inside-up of the veins and arteries

all are the world of cosmetic-surgery
all are the arena of displaced national integrity
that is the only way to get admitted
into the still water of the horse-race

so the making of this self-portrait of the tip-cat game
by own-hand
so is the fancy of the engagement ring of the bursar

as a result of the headache in the au fait knee-joint
all the rats on the rice-*** of margaret  
become very angry
and when they make their performance  
you can’t catch them by extending your hands

so there is this sky-blue printed sari of desdemona
now take refuge under her perfumed disaster
and it is feared that there may be the drops of sweat
on the lobes of her nose extremely devoted
that the trees become to reside in

how much confusing is that cascade
in each of whose earings the dark fortnight
and whose eden garden is so large
that all those  people with crevasses dwell there

they stay in a group of nine
neither eight nor ten
just n for 9
n is also meant for the nancy
and the narcissus
and the sensational appearance of the
nereid  

once again we rub green-chilly after pouring water
in the parched-rice on the ancient plate made of brass
it is right that the peak is separated down from the temple
but it does not hurt the priest

by the right of our walks strewed outside
we too when hiding ourselves in the regime of fire
with our intention and activities
with our standpoint
with our conduct and  behaviour
or any instant rule or direction
or our deeds
that compel the rotation of the deodorant

thus after the eye-operation
the love between you and me is now
seeing more week-ends than before
to her knee has been submitted many caws
painted in water-colour

in every corner and every hole of the body
that pulls the rickshaw the wind enters
and in every root-cause of the sufferings
the ripple of annihilation of love

from the shop of dip-swimming now
you can also purchase soundlessness  
to feel  the spirit of  chrysoberyl

now you need the work for 100 days
to gain the power you need to keep pace
with the graph of the terracotta
that may also be a long day of fasting  

then on the back of that hungry conch-shell
a globe shouts
the other’s world puts its office-water
in the fountain of cactus the roaring of which
pours so many telephone-calls into the ears

then in our market the ear-bursting sound of the generator
then in our forest-land
the bullet-fight between maoist and the joint-force

then with the enlarging and waning of our moon
are the bright fortnight the dark fortnight and the leaves of wood-apple

you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too

then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point  

but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright

then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled

the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum

to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears

then the light of the social moon  is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up

it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean  

it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too

some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair

but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses  
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan

in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera

Welcome to the world of Sci-fi
horror like a risky affair we
have all been courting,
but now it is really here.
And of course the reality is always  
far worse than the movie.
Like an alien attack or abduction
there is a flash of bright white
light.
As hot as the center of the sun
those underneath vaporize
into nothing.
Their remains like ghostly shadows
burnt into the scarred ground.
And as we drop deeper into hell
we find in terror
the devil runs out.

Survivors blinded, burnt, crawling,
moping and moaning as we find
ourselves living in a desert like
Zombie land.
An earth once full of life falls through
space like a discarded match burning
itself out.
Of course I can only talk for myself
as you maybe able to hold a flame
against an innocent child or old lady.
But if not maybe you should not,
like genocide be supporting it.  
Thousands screaming and crying but
I am sorry there no hospital and there
will be no ambulance coming.

So with Little Boy
such a friendly name
like the boy playing down the park.
Well 40 thousand died an hour after
that one was dropped.
Now imagine something 30 times as
strong something they call the
Ivy King,
king of the apocalyptic land.
And now imagine their latest celebration
they call Castle Bravo 1000 times
more powerful.
How many millions tens of millions
could that ****
Bravo bravo bravo.

But these are just numbers what if they
all each had a name like
Nikolai or Emiko
sorry maybe it would be better if
we did not give them a foreign
name maybe call them
Jenifer or John.
So do really want to give our
government permission to drop
a bomb like Hiroshima or Nagasaki.
Perhaps they would be safer if they
changed there cities names called them
something like Manchester or Birmingham.

Naughty boys boasting about their
conquers sit around tables playing
their poker bluff.
While injecting a fear into their
enemies heart they mind their p's and q's.
As they pretend to be civilized
but at the same time threatening
an annihilation.
Just so they may get the
Upper hand
A gas pipe or
Oil rich land.
But I don't want my life to be
someones negotiating tool.
So stop playing your silly game of
chance because if you loose the whole
worlds is gone.
Please someone tell them
this is really not a game.

I hope the world has realized more
bombs does not make it safer.
Maybe you think it is money well spent
or maybe like me you think it could be
spent curing cancer or the environment.    
Any on a personal note
I really do hope  
they give up trident.

Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.

Indigo. A dream of the color, and the sound of soft rain. Bathing birds babbled among pines beyond her window, and morning light was warm on her closed face. An ache in the spine. Creaking knees. Shoulders cold cliff-rock. Complaining muscles knotted tight as wood. The wooden house around her also creaked in the wind. Smelled wet. And somewhere echoing through her fields Edgar barked three times, then once more in playful affirmation. Today maybe the last today. In her mind’s eye, falling almost back into dream, Nora surveyed the long acres surrounding her cold home: untended wheat, alfalfa, cattle-corn, all woven through untold ecosystems of weeds. Stray indigo flowers and violets. Scattered dust-filled barns. What the place might look like after all this time. With her right hand she sought the frame of the bed, found it, rough chips of paint flaking. Slowly exhaling at once Nora lifted her iron legs over the edge, thin-socked feet found the bedroom’s planks. Cold air. November hopelessness. With spider-sensitive fingers she plucked her way around the room, imagining violet dawn spilling through her screen window. Stood before the poker-faced mirror out of habit, ran her brush through hair that must now be silver. She felt the satisfying tug on her scalp and loudly past her ears. If her dresser was in front of her, to her right was the window and the pine-scented boxes where she kept his clothes, behind was her rumpled bed, and to her left then was the bathroom. She felt along the door-frame, the sink, the toilet, and sighingly she settled onto its seat. Relief.
Rain drops on her roof were like the “shh” breathed to an infant. Warm blanket of rain over the cold farm. The breathy wind was driving the rain towards her house, cranky knees told of a storm to come. The boisterous wind had the sound of laughter and strife, of voices: the twins arguing somewhere, Edgar probably with them over-enthusiasticly ******* their footsteps. The bellowing wind made the house creak more than usual, but there was something else. A distinctive groan from the foundation up the east wall to the roof-tiles. Someone was in the kitchen. Constance, just like it used to be. Connie was here and the twins were outside: they had arrived closer to dawn than Nora expected. Heavy truck’s tires in mud, headlights had pioneered dawn darkness. Smell of soil. Massaged her own back, kneaded the the flesh on either side of her spine, then wiped and stood from the seat letting her nightgown fall all down around her knotted ankles. Washed herself, and a short shower before the water turned cold. Dried her wrinkles feelingly, smelling soap, and pulled her soft nightgown back on. Socks.
Always a joy whenever Constance came to call — less frequently these days it seemed — always a joy to be with her grandchildren though little Bastian was still mistrustful of her. Always a joy to see her daughter’s family… but she never got to see Matt’s. An image of her son’s face, a red haired ghost of the past, flickered in Nora’s memory. He couldn’t stand this place since he was young, hated his full name “Matthias,” maybe hated Nora too. No reason to stay after his father died. He fled to the city. Must have a wife, several children by now. Well. At least Constance kept coming by. The rain grew heavier, played on the roof like the roll of a snare drum.
Out of the bathroom and bedroom, feeling the planks of floorboard with her soles, hand by hand and foot by foot she traced her steps down the rickety stairs. Uneven. Nora knew the chandelier she once hung here was red; she pictured the color as hard as she could to envision its reflection on each surface of the stairwell. Smell of pine. Like the smell of his clothes safely preserved in the boxes by the window. Jagged nostalgia. Nora had met dear Rowan back in another world: a world of whirling sights and colors and beautiful ugliness and ugliest beauty all. To America when she was nineteen, leaving behind all Germany and studying her new tongue. Had still devoured books then, was able to become a school teacher. When twenty-three, met in a chance cafe Rowan who worked the docks. Red hair. Scottish but of many American generations. Nora grabbed blindly at a face just out of memory’s reach. Her hold on the bannister revealed the places where varnish had been rubbed away by her wringing hands. From the kitchen, acrid cigarette stench and shuffling. Inflamed knees hating her meticulous descent, but better this ordeal each day than to abandon the bedroom they had shared. When the two met, Rowan still sent money to his agricultural folks in New York (“Upstate,” he protested more than once, “Not that awful city, but in the countryside!” and he’d pantomime a deep breath) because of the expenses of running their farm. Nora’s now. From the cafe he had bought her an almond pastry, triangular, smaller than a palm, its sweet crisp flakes made her think of Mediterranean forests, and when the two were married they worked this hereditary farm. Nora knew all the animals, when they still kept livestock. Now Nora’s farm, whose after? When her little Matthias was born they had praised him as the farm’s inheritor. Unwise.
Last step. Sound from the kitchen of Connie shifting in her seat, rustling papers. Smell of strong coffee. Strong cigarettes. Composed herself, quietly cleared throat. Sauntered down the hallway, monitoring expression and tone. Nora said, “Hello Constance. When did you three get here?”
“Hey ma,” said the woman’s voice when the elder crossed into the kitchen. “For christ’s sake don’t call me that.”
“For christ’s sake, don’t take his name,” Ma scolded, but then traced her way past the table to the countertop and felt about for utensils. “I’ll make you something Connie.” The counter was in front of her, bathroom to the left, stove to her right and along that same wall was the back door. ”How about some nice eggs and toast like how you like.”
“No ma, I handled it already.”
“And what color is that hair of yours this time?” Ma asked, carefully inserting slices of bread into the toaster. “Seems like months you haven’t been by.”
A patronising, sarcastic chuckle. “…it’s orange, ma.
Listen—”
“That is so nice. Your father’s hair was just that shade of orange.” Felt around inside the refrigerator. The styrofoam carton. Small and cold and round, her fingers seized four of them. “Do you remember?”
Pause. “I remember, ma.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Ma swallowing a cough, expertly igniting one gas burner as practiced and putting on hot water for tea, “is why you don’t fix to keep it natural. I love our nice fair hair, very blonde, very pretty.” Back home in Germany Nora had been the favorite of two men, but many years since engaging in the frivolous antics she in those days entertained. “Best to flaunt your natural hair color while it’s still there: orange like Matt and dear Rowan, or fair like you and Lorelai got.” Memories of her own face as she remembered it. Relatively young the last time she had seen. What wrinkles there must be. What a mask to wear. No wonder Bastian. Nora ignited another burner. Tick tick tick fwoosh. Smelled gas. Sound of the almost boiling water complaining against its kettle. Phantom taste of anticipated tea. Regret. The contents of the vial hidden on the top shelf. Today maybe the. Sound of heavy rain. “And how are your bundles of mischief?”
Connie sighed. “I told Lorelai to get her little **** inside the house, as if she hears a word. She’s playing with Ed somewhere in the fields I don’t wonder, rain be ******. That girl is such a little — well she’d better not be down by the creek anyhow. Could get flooded in a downpour like this. Bastian was out with her, but he’s playing in his room now. You know we don’t have time to stay long today, it’s just that you and I got to finally square this business away. No more deliberating, ok?”
Swallowed. “Course, Constance. Just nice to hear your voice. You’re taking care?”
“Care enough. Last time I was — oh! Jesus, ma!”
Ma’s egg missed the pan’s edge. She felt herself shatter the shell into the stove top, in her mind’s eye saw the bright orange yolk squeezed into the albumen. The burner hissed against liquid intrusion. Connie made a strained noise and scooped her mother into a seat at the table. Movement. Crisply, the sound of two fresh eggs being broken and sizzling on the pan. Scrambled as orange as Connie’s guarded temper. The table’s cool surface. Phantom smell of pine wood polish and recollections of Rowan at his woodworking tools building this table once. Other breakfasts. Young Constance, young Matthias. Young self. Her left hand massaged her aching right shoulder, then she switched. The sound of plates being readjusted with unnecessary force.
“You know,” said her daughter, “living in one of them places might even be fun. Might be good for you instead of moping about this place. But like I’ve been saying, we got to make our decision today: sell this place or pass it on. I know you don’t take no walk, cause where would you go? What’s the point in keeping all this **** land if you’re not gonna do nothing with it? You can’t even ******* see it!”
“Constance! Language!”
“Come on ma, just cut it out! This is great property, and you’ve let it get so it’s bleeding money.”
“…But Constance I can’t sell it, not like your brother wants me to do. He’s always trying to get rid of this place and turn a profit, but someone needs to take care of it! You know that this is the house that your f—“
“‘That your grandparents lived in where your father and I raised you…’ Yeah I know, ma. And I get it. Believe me. But what you’re doing is just plain impractical, why don’t you think about it? All you’re doing is haunting this place like a ghost. Wouldn’t you rather live somewhere where you can make friends? Things can’t go on like this.” A plate was placed softly on the table and it slid in front of Ma. Can’t go on like this. Egg smell. Salted. Toast, margarine. A cup of tea appeared nearby. “Anything else you want? Here’s a fork.”
“What will you eat, Constance?”
“I ate, ma, I ate already. Have your breakfast, then we can talking about this for real. Ok?” Then, the sound of her daughter’s body shifting in surprise, a pleasant unexpected, “Oh,” before Connie said low and matronly, “Hi baby, how you doing? Are you hungry?” But only the sound of the downpour. Orange eggs still softly sizzled. The wind pushed the creaking house. “Sweetie, you don’t have to hide behind the door, it’s ok. Come say hi to grandma… don’t you want some scrambled eggs?” Refrigerator’s hum. Barking echoed, coming over the hill. But not even the little boy’s breathing. Grandma had met the twins two years ago, following the **** of Constance’s rebellious years and independence. Nora was reminded of her german gentlemen and her own amply tumultuous adolescence. She could forgive. Two years ago Lorelai and Bastian had already been too big to cradle and fawn over, but they were discovered to be just starting school and already bright pupils. Grandma hung her head. Warm steam from where the uneaten eggs waited patiently. Edgar’s approaching yapping. And, fleeing from the doorway, a scampering of feet so light they might have been moth wings. Down the hallway back into his room. “Sorry ma,” said Constance.
Shrugged. A nerve flared in pain up her neck but she didn’t react. Only fork scrape. Ate eggs. On introduction, poor little Bastian had burst into tears and refused to go near her. Connie had consoled: “It’s ok baby, she’s just Grandma Nora! She’s my mother.” But poor little Bastian inconsolable: “No, no, no! She’s not!” What a wrinkled mask it must be. How hideous unkempt with silver hair. How horrible unflinching eyes. “She’s not,” would sob the quiet boy in earnest, “she’s a witch! Don’t you see?” And he never would let Grandma hold him. Lorelai was always polite, hugged warmly, looked after her pitiable brother, but her mind too was far elsewhere. Edgar alone loved them all unconditionally and was equally beloved. Barking. Yowling. Scratches at the door. Downpour. Door and screen door opened, wet dog happy dog entered, shook, and droplets on her cheek.
And there appeared Lorelai, a star out of sight. “Hey mom. Hi grandma!”
Grandma swiveled for cosmetic reasons to face where the door. Grinned, “Hello Lorelai. Wet?” Envisioned yellow sunlight entering with the excitable girl in spite of the deluge.
“Oh it’s so rainy out there grandma, I found little streams through your fields and big mud puddles and Edgar showed me where your secret treasure was, we found it!”
“Stop right there, missy!” commanded Constance. “For christ’s sake you look like you took a bath in the mud and the **** dog with you. Come on, your filthy coat needs to be on the rack, right? Now your boots.”
Warm nose found Nora’s palm, excited lapping. Slimy fur, smelly fur. A cold piece of egg dangled in her fingers, then dog breath came hot and licked it up. Satisfied, he trotted off elsewhere, collar jingling out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Little Lorelai lamented, “I couldn’t help it mom, the mud was all over the place! When we got past the motor barn and the one alfalfa field that looks like a big marsh frogs went ‘croak croak croak’ but Edgar growled and chased them and then we made it all the way in the rain to the creek and it’s so much—”
“Now you just hold on. Hold still!” Sounds of wrestling. Grunts of a struggle. “That creek must have been overflowing! Didn’t I tell you not to? You didn’t take your new phone out there did you, Lori?”
“No ma’am.”
“**** right you didn’t, cause I sure ain’t buying you a new one. Didn’t I tell you not to go all the way out there? Didn’t I? Now you get into that bathroom and wash your **** hands!”
“But I’m telling Grandma a story!” huffed little yellow haired Lorelai.
“Well wash your hands first and then we’ll hear it, Grandma don’t listen to misbehaving girls who are all muddy and gross. Not a squeak from you till you look like you come from heaven instead of that nasty creek.”
A profound sigh, a condescending, “Fine,” a door closing and a squeaky faucet running. Muffled hands splashed, dampened off-key ‘la la la’s.
“Who knows what the hell that one is ever talking about,” said Connie. “It’s everything I can do to get her to shut up for five ******* minutes. You done with your eggs?”
Ma fidgeted. The plate was scraped away, and a clunk by the sink. Licked her lips, mouthed a syllable, about to speak. But then her house creaked three strong along the east wall. From deeper within bubbled a suppressed sob: “Mom,” little Bastian wailed, “Mom, come quick!” Constance sighed, Constance cursed, and Constance swept off down the hallway struggling to refrain from stomping.
Sound of washing. Wind. Rain. Alone. Cold. Picking out the paint for this room, listed in gloss as ‘golden straw yellow.’ Rowan hadn’t liked it and chose himself the bedroom’s color in retaliation. The loss of the home they had built together. The contents of the vial hidden on the top shelf: do they see it? Bathroom sink stopped flowing, door wrenched open. Smell of soap, clean smell. Grandma said to her, “Your mother went to check on Bastian,” Taste of eggs still yellow on her tongue.
“What a *****!”
Stunned. “Lorelai!” she snapped. “Don’t you dare take that language!”
“But mom does it all the time.”
“Then Lorelai, it’s up to you to be better than your mother. When I’m not around any more, and your mother neither, you’ll be the one who keeps us alive.”
“But as long as you’re alive you’ll always be around, you’re not a ***** like mom. And remember? I got all the mud off so can I finally tell you can I what we found? Well actually it was Edgar found it. Oh and I’ll describe it real good for you grandma just like you could see it: when we pulled up we were just wandering in the blue rain, Bastian and me, and silly Edgar joined us but Mom tried to make us come back of course but I told Bastian to stay with us at first, but later I changed my mind on it. It was he and me and Edgar were hiding in the old motor barn where it smells like a gas station remember grandma and he was so excited to see the sun when it rose and made the morning violet sky he started clapping and Edgar got excited too and was barking ‘bark bark’ and howling so I told Bastian to go back even

I wake up in the morning and think, how rude of me to wake up without warning. Because I'm a grenade. Just look at all of the promises I've made, that I know I can't keep. I try my best to go back to sleep; but I can't.
       So I dress myself in yellow caution tape, close the drapes, turn out the light and tell myself no one will find me here but I know they might.
       I hang a stop sign on the outside of the door and lock it, put the key in my otherwise empty pocket and scream, "This is a danger zone, don't come near. there is only hazardous waste in here!"

             I didn't know you were fearless.
Or that you could break down a door.
Never  thought you'd caress me, pick me up off the floor
and say "But, you used to be so full of life."
Those words cut through me like a knife because I remember when butterflies still lived in my stomach and fireflies lived in my eyes.
they're dead now. I'm not surprised.
But, could you maybe bring them back to life?
They haven't taken flight since we slept in the meadow that night.
When I realized, after all those hours laying in a field of flowers,
That I am the flower you disassemble Petal by Petal.
as you chant "she loves me, she loves me not."  about some other girl. And I try not to rant, because we've never fought. But I don't want to listen to you tell me how her hair glistens in the sun, or how she bites her lip when you call her Hon. I don't want to hear it. I don't want you to give my biggest fear a name or face I could recognize. I'm just hoping you scrutinized me petal by petal as you disassembled my petals with another ******* your mind. and that's why you're back now. That you don't know how, but your thoughts trailed or that other girl failed you. And while you were moping you thought of me broken, scattered Petal by Petal. And your heart shattered at the thought so you bought a one way ticket and broke down my door. Because you realized while you were moping that you love me and you were stupid before. maybe i'm wrong and you shouldn't have to settle.

I'm just hoping,  you'll put me together again Petal by Petal
© copyrighted *Nicole Ann Osborn