Cold winter afternoon,
Heading to my friend’s,
Down to the woods,
Ghost hunting again.

Deep into the ravine,
Feeling strange,
Like being watched,
From away.

“Split up,”
“Farther that way?”
Alone I see it,
A beautiful woman in the creek.

I called out,
She looked at me,
Then faded.
A ghost,
I swear I saw.

When I was going for a drive
Well being driven when
I realized that I did not have
My phone nor iPad
Were with me
The same thing with Sirenhead
I was not able to picture
The
Discs of light
Flying through the night sky
UFOs I saw
But I never thought to take a picture
But this I say
I believe

Eleanor and Charlotte ,
drifting in sunlit reverie ,
see Marie Antoinette at her
easel
and the beginning of her
sorrow .
☆
How many cherubs , smiling ,
fixed scribes of shimmering
light ,
recline incumbent in vast marble halls .
☆
When ,
frozen in Time ,
two maidens in a doorway ,
pass a ceramic jug
between one another
for eternity .
☆
A man yells ,
seeing people back in time ,
that they were
too close to the chapel .
☆
Look , over a bridge ,
past an aqueduct ,
lay an unkempt meadow ,
where the mood was unnatural
and unpleasant .
☆
While behind dull meadow ,
the treeline was
as woodwork or tapestry .
☆
Flat and lifeless ,
as a shadow without
light or dark .
☆
No wind stirred the trees
and the two women
felt an unease of dreariness ,
as if walking in someone else's dream .
☆
" Wherefor the Trianon ?! "
The gardener stopped his labour
☆
" You will see a fine lady
   in summer gown
   and a large white hat . "
☆
And suddenly he was gone .
☆
Then , finally at the gate ,
a large man ,
in period costume
and born of a malevolent star .
☆
Dark cloak and
smallpox scarred ,
he stared forebodingly
under brim of black hat .
☆
Cronos , Father Time and
Death .
☆
The Future was stalling .

I feel them touching me
in my sleep .
That morning I spent as a servant .
☆
They leave signs for me
on the road .
A person's name scribed
upside down ,
three times and in a row .
☆
I feel them next to me
on my bed .
That morning I spent as a servant .
☆
They reveal many things
in my dreams .
A story that was hidden ,
concealed ,
three times and in a row .

He is the Singing God ,
the Singularity of Numbers .
His fortress is my stronghold
and His beautiful visage
is the Horn and Shield
that makes my enemies to shake
and tremble in fear .
☆
He drives them to the sea
and casts them down in silence ,
bound with silken cords of regret ,
then tormented by cherubs and
seraphim and glowing
purple orbs ,
while for me a great banquet is laid out .
☆
In forgotten pyramids on
the Mountains of the Moon ,
they heard the Earth tremble
as He brought forth fire from His mouth
and consumed the Unclean
in a deluge of despair .
☆
The valleys of their deceit lay exposed
and the temple of their lies
became a sodden field
devoid of all human warmth .
Putrid wasteland of misery ,
a mansion blown over with
flies .
☆
As for Jehovah my God ,
he is flawless and perfect .
He is Alpha and Omega .
He raises me to the highest of mountains
and guides my hunter's Moon
on the path of His
righteousness .
☆
Only oblivion awaits the profane
who put darkness for transcendence
and hope for base untruth
and lies that issue forth
from that archangel of sadness
bound in chains at the bottom of the pit .
☆
The wrath of Jehovah
or the beauty of righteous violence .
Seven star sisters were saved .
Delivered , they pronounced holy judgement and
down into a valley walled of black sheer towering onyx
those afflicted souls were cast .
☆
The Keeper of the Mysteries ,
the Black Madonna and the
first crowned queen of Egypt ,
now tred the temple path in paradise ,
where lion lies down with the Lamb
and all expression is as the mind of my god .

Forces they refuse to contemplate ,
gather round them like
wraiths .
The stolen treasure they
conspire to conceal ,
scant hope their souls
debased .
☆
See now the towering
archangel ,
Michael , with his sword .
Intent foul purpose now
costly repaid ,
come the Day of the Lord .
☆
Across an expanse of
night and fog ,
they wander now alone .
And not before
transgression reversed ,
will any be suffered come
home .

Come October they would rise again ,
steal through hidden doorways .
Putrescent then they take their form ,
in liminal space they have their birth .
☆
Every year they come for their meat ,
driven by some unknown clock.
In twenty-eight days they become manifest ,
their grey bony fingers unlock .
☆
A gallery of faded portraits ,
mark Octobers that have gone before ,
gaze longingly out of picture frames ,
behold the living on which they feed .
☆
It gets darker now once more I tell you ,
it shan't be very long ,
till October casts it's deadened pall ,
and then their sickly will be done .

What if something is speaking to me ?
Something that cannot die ,
and all I have to do is listen ,
then function as a scribe .
☆
In spaces between my thoughts
or in corners of my mind ,
or memories of dimlit past ,
now lately redefined  .
☆
What is it then she force
convey ,
while pushing me aside ,
bending my will to her own design ,
my starry moonlit bride .
☆
What of myself and all these dreams ,
Now frozen out of time ?
A traveller from the depths of space ,
with nothing that is mine .