the night in turmoil
a bumble jumble fumble
of croaks, hoo hoo, purrs, stridulous chirping

then a sudden cringe, ******!,
shush shush
hush, gurgling creek,
hush, whiffled leaves

clippety-cloppety
clippety-cloppety
clok clok clok

a schwing, zing, zip
and a plunk
and a plonk
in a whoosh
and then a scrunche scrunche
and

clok clok clok
clippety-cloppety
clippety-cloppety

silence burbles

tick tock tick tock

shh, shh,
listen:

a sluggy chugalug
and a fuzz of tiny tunes:
a yelp, a eep

stilness

a purr a buzz
putt putt putt
slowly back in motion
the burbles, whiffs, croaks,
the stridulous bumble jumble
of a crickety night

my selfless facade is cracking
under the pressure of the pillars that crumbled all around me
the puzzle pieces that don't fit anymore,
together forever, seems stupid now.

as i struggle to pull back the blanket
so i don't reveal the tricks up my sleeve,
i stumble and the whole charade ends.
it was pretty while it lasted,
but now i must write about something else.

A cartoonish grim woman
in aft cabin was a harlequin let umbrage
squash her there a known charter while she'd smoke in bed

her aroma did permeate her rise to eat breakfast
a morning prepared for sore again
only technical her rouse indeed tripped her smoke alarm
and went unheeded to another deck till open bar decided her fate

while her interest there was crickety
where love is deep in the sea
their golden groves were bubbles and waves
while they brim with valuables onboard did spill
and they'd evoke near me without their calling

when aquanauts will buck up gear then they really sever
their troves below that really soften thine eyes
where the air is moist and ye suit there so well
I can tell you I am picky today and defray your kind.

“Edith Black” By Emily Austin

I felt my wife's hand grace my shoulder.
I brought my hand to hers, held it and I told her
“I love you Edith Black”
But she doesn't say it back.

I heard my wife humming through our old crickety house.
I got up and I told my beautiful darling spouse
“I love you Edith Black”
But she doesn't say it back.

I smell my wife making coffee at about half past one.
I follow the scent and I tell my dear sweet hon
“I love you Edith Black”
But she doesn't say it back.

I remember the olden days.
I remember when she used to say
“I love you Alan Black.”
And I'd always say it back.

I can no longer take her hand in mine
Or see her smile of bright sunshine
But only in my head
For my darling Edith Black
is dead.

If I could change one simple thing
I'd bring her back so she could sing.
Or just so I could say
“I love you Edith Black”
And have her say it back.

Curtain dust is like magic falling onto the stage
And the rickety crickety creaking of the aged floor
Holds all the birthrights to the moments constantly being born.

The sea of floating souls do not desire anything more
But to submerge themselves in the waves of the anthems
And underwater they try to bottle the fallen curtain magic.

Wavelengths of harmonies flow through space
Beckoning for a flow, a feeling, a connection between each other
Moments agilely fleet away, but here time is endless.

He was on a pedestal
and his head fell off.
Like a heavy tomato
Splat!
It rolled around the ground
underneath the table.
Chatty chat chats
of hungry spectators,
like the company of rats.
Nibble, nibble, nibble
Not a lot of salt in the scraps
for such a head so engorged.
Swelling and swelling
Swelling 'till bleeding
The rats really like it.
Making waves with his eyes
But no one could hear him
Crickety cricket
Until someone moved their foot
and kicked him.
Bam! Flying.
One day, he will land on the ground...
But good lord, did he miss his body
that could no longer hold him
On his pigeon-toed pedestal
where he felt much important

dingly fingly
wickety wackety
overflow going up
crickety crackety
and all of the dangen, the
dingin and dongin and
on and on and onagain onagain

snippety snippety
spinagain spitagain
flatabout backwardsing
flatabout forwardsing
sobusy thisbusy
toobusy stressfactor
not stopping till rictus
or blowups and messfactor

notlearning notlistening
gofigures upratcheting
notseeing nothearing
ambivalence hatcheting
all in dingly the
wickety wack
the edge up approaching
from whichety which
will be no coming back


MChallis © 2015