Don’t fall in love with a poet.
By Jude Kyrie

I look into your trusting beautiful eyes.
You are so lovely so gentle and loving.
I wonder if you know yet
you will leave me.
For you are playing
with a tinder box.
And I am a gallon of gasoline.
The fire is inevitable.
You will find out there
A man who is gentle
with a loving heart
He will see only
the beauty in you.
You will have become
tired of my poetry
The emotional roller coaster
I choose to live on.
Weary of the poets afflictions
for red wine and infidelity.
You will fall into his bed
and he will welcome you.
Into his much stronger arms
than mine can ever be.
I shall return
to writing love poems
Poems that are
real to my heart
But to a woman
that cannot ever exist.
I shall frequent
the slam bars of the city.
And sleep with
the women who think its
Romantic to bed a poet.
Yet never ask
my last name.
So strike your tinder box.
Create a spark.
Save yourself
as I ignite into
flames before you.

~~
Lo! Large Small Stairway of Dreams
Covered with Slithery algae wearing a blue green rug
Suddenly Stood lopsided
But there is Still Speed
Wants to adopt another Shelters

Desert mirage far and near
Looking for an Oasis
Thirsty Heart wants water
Though the Scorpions wandering
In the Hot dry Sand
Of life keeps evidence

Dreams and Entity
As the Fantasy of the Cloud and Rain
However, the Truth may be Solid black
After Cleaning with Rain,
The Heart of my beloved
As the Bright Raft of Autumn Sky

Swept under the Shadows of the Evening Sun
In The Dull moon of Dream's Land
Love and Dreams mingled within a Solitary Dream
While the Fog lights lining
Elusive Emissions Of The Exhausted Heart!
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
....

In the End, the Faithful were rewarded,
But there were just a few.
In the End, most screamed with terror,
As the guilty always do.
In the End, there was a final vote,
And we thought consensus ruled,
But in the End, the voting over,
We discovered we were fooled.

In the End, we ran for shelter,
There was none there to be found;
All the Faithful had secured it;
For they were Heaven-bound.
As the flames lept all around us,
We begged forgiveness from our Lord
In a Hell of our own makng,
With riches saved we can’t afford.

For the riches we were chasing,
Stole the goodness from our soul.
All the gold and all the silver
Melted into worthless coal,
And I stood and watched with sadness
Knowing I had had my chance
As the flames lept all around me,
Hell’s eternal damning dance.
PwL  3/19/16

I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into  fiendishly handsome toreadors.

I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct.  Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.

Good Witches do not

wear dresses of peonies

they do not say

“I am a Good Witch”

they are not

caricatures of happiness


Good Witches wear

sunsets like cloaks

they run with

bare feet

exposed limbs

and snake hair

through forests and foggy minds


They jump over stone walls

laughing as the

sticks crack

beneath them

they drum their midnight black claws

against tables

as if they were raised by wolves

and divine your future

in sidewalk cracks

modern-day Cassandras,

better listen

listen


they do not say

“I am a Good Witch”

they smirk, bear fangs

forked tongues spilling magik like moonlight

and make you figure it out yourself