Black like spiders telling truths only God should know
The wise old hermit
Offers you his hand as if you were a child
And leads you forth into the unknown.

As you walk, you think to ask,
"Where are we going?"
But you realize it doesn't matter
Since you know that wherever you're going

He'll be there with you
In the shadows of your mind
Holding your hand

She builds me
a home
in
her
heart.

a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs*

my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.

burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^

she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.

she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.

a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a  e  i  o  u.

you can hear what I heard too.

after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.

I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.

but not so well.

I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.

here is how it comes all together.
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.

oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.

these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:

this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.

I could live without
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.

but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.

So you see this poem is about
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.

In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.*

you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.

A sonnet's what this is, that much is plain
There really isn't any need to stare
Its introduction's made in this quatrain
Two more will follow, then a rhyming pair

It is iambic, so it goes “dot dash”
Two syllables a foot, five feet a line
The rhythm takes you onward in a flash
The sense of structure's reinforced by rhyme

After the first octet, a change of mood
The sonnet's true intentions are revealed
Its themes are love and essence, nothing crude
Hard hearts begin to melt and ******* to yield

Then closure as it slowly slips away
A soft exit – a pyrrhic fall – spondee.

There's the eight of us,
So very different
But yet so much the same.

Each of us holds our special traits.
Our special talents
Converged as an octet.

Some artistic
Some scientific
Some linguistic and
All fantastic.

We love to laugh,
We love to tease,
We love to make a fool of ourselves.

We know there's one who's always there,
Spraying water everywhere,
But never lets people touch her hair.

And then there's one,
Who's buff and tough,
Her voice can change like a chameleon's skin.

Next we have this pretty babe,
Her furry stuff are fun to touch,
She's the gentlest, loveliest llama I know.

Not to forget,
The one's that's brainy,
Such a smarty that she can't type properly.

There's also one that I believe
She's really a mermaid in disguise,
Her actions way too ridiculous.

Of course we have this crazy kid,
Too many fandoms and too little sleep.
I still wonder why she needs her hood all the time.

And here there's another girl,
With real beautiful eyes,
A perfect actress for sketch comedies.

Last but not least,
There's just me,
I can't find a word for my personality.

I don't know how far we'll go,
If we'll still stay as close as we are right now.
As time cruelly marches on,
The day we'll part ways draws so near.

This part of me knows
That this magical bond
That we call friendship,
Will live on forever and ever.

Never did I feel so sure,
So confident about friendship.
But you guys are so special,
I really hope you know.

No matter what happens,
I see myself with you all forever,
And you all with me.

I believe in this friendship.
This magical bond,
That holds the eight of us,
Closely together,
Forever.

beautiful green mesh
of a garden full of
mint.
a thick snowy web
gently tops the tall,
fragrant mint—
never thinking where this
dewy web derived from.

i suddenly spotted the source.
how could something so
grotesque
so ghastly
create something so beautiful
such as this web?

thick body, thick octet set of legs
perched
and ready
for something.

maybe
when it dies
the vermin
could possibly redeem itself
because of the
snowy, dewy web
(a home)
it made in the green
meshy garden of mint.

An abyss that echoes shrieks of eagles circling above:
the moon lies smashed in her sunken depths by nights,
this pit of enveloping darkness, a vessel emptied of life.

Brick by brick, aeons layer her walls, who knows when
she was dug? she carries fragrances of primordial waters
gathered in the heart of earth to the winds of the present.

Long before Joseph's well, she stood when desert land
was verdant wood, and before the earth was tread
asunder by the chariot, this graveyard of the stars.

Plunder she has seen, and abuse as she towers over the past.

Not a wellspring, emptied dry, but a bowl abegging.
The bowl that gave a creed to a continent?
Caravans pass by disgraced crevices remnant
of that era, gone long of stone. Effeminate, she pawned
her bricks over for a life. Or a well to collect the dead,
frightened by the hundreds by the colonial bullet.

Rise and fall, she carries in her wheel of life, her spoked zero.
Of which yet arises a homespun yarn of dreams.

Darkness wells forth from this abysmal chasm, and her
waters cause feuds by brother to brother. Men of straw,
of whom in a few years, no trace would remain,
yet remain and the dove that flew the night a tryst was made
still challenges the jacketed savant on Parliament square.
A pair of inverted eyes guard the gates of darkness.

And now and again, you see yet a star
shooting out to the skies again from the waters: to the moon,
a mushroom cloud, a circling satellite, and an octet notes.

She's not one well: her waters brackish, are
a thousand islands, that came together under the shadow
of an empire on whom the sun never sets.
Count the roots of the banyan, trees.
Her sons grow weak and lumpen. Her daughters rise.
And so she endures, this ancient mother.

In her depths, on the day, when the star of David is reversed,
she endures the ******* reversed, that shined in her of ages ago.
Of men, two quarters great, arise from the same shadow:
The eagle on the west, and the dove on the east.
The not is the all, the zero is everything.
Eternity, two zeros conjoined.

he asked a question
and without waiting
for a response
drew three cards
from that divinatory deck
usually carrying as little
meaning as a tossed coin
scoffed at and swiftly ignored
this time seemed to tell
a recognisable tale
unexpected in its providence
a fortune perhaps
to favour the brave

the hanging man
with his eight swords
and his eight wands
these cards showed him
the start of a journey
not necessarily a life
turned upside-down
instead that a change
of perspective is needed
the octet of swords
unveiled his cage
of indecision
uncertainty and fear
a need to upset
the balance of the inert
a reasoning for destruction
in order to create
and those upright wands
carrying with them
such signs of movement
a willingness to decide
a commitment to progress

either that or
the pack was simply
reshuffled and dealt
again and again
until it foretold
that which needed
to be heard

The day is fading once again, the forest stands in silhouette
And I upon my balcony with Bergerac, and cigarette
Survey the Moon that rises to illuminate, with harsh regret
My lost and lonesome memories of then and her, the sad
Annette
She called to me in velvet night, across the brawny moor
I found the moment contrary, resisting not her soft allure
I walked in nightmares sad lament, my heart decreed herein de-jure
I ascend the last few steps and stop.. and softly knock upon the door

I stood but for a moment there, the opening ajar
I sensed soft music on the breeze, originating from afar
Looking up I saw my tears reflected in the evening star
I stepped inside, a haunting scent adrift upon the evening air
I listened as the music played inside my mind, a soft octet
Silently the windows sang, with ornate glass in raised rosette  
What happened next my heart denies, although has not forgotten yet
There beheld my eyes the hollow face of her.. the sad Annette

She sat there lost in solitude emotion thus demure
Her sedentary countenance at once was sullen, quite obscure
Attire of one whom long ago had donned her lost haute-couture
Though words cannot describe my feelings, as I sat...
and gazed at her
She looked my way but for a moment, she had sensed my hidden pain
Effaced a tear she’d wished unnoticed, smiled at me and then
She said “I love you”, closed her eyes and spoke these words again
It seemed as if she’d thrown my naked soul…
out in the rain

No other words were spoken as I turned, to take my leave
Annette had given me another reason, so to grieve
To see with crystal clarity, the failures I’ve achieved
To make my heart another lonely wretched refugee
To sit at days demise again with wine, and cigarette
Attempting to relieve my mind of her, although I haven’t yet
I live within the tortured realm of memories I can’t forget
Of years ago and three small words,
offered by the sad Annette.

Dean Evans
4-5-15