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I've seen the sky turn orange.
Last Christmas.
Going to a party
(that's all Christmas is, a party)
it was grey and purple
and all of a sudden
orange.
Brent was in the car with me
I don't remember who was driving
or if we were coming from
or going too.
But we both remember
orange.
We talk about it
its one of those odd things that we both remember and we don't know why
but every few months
I'll mention the orange fog
or he will
        we were drunk
        (that's what Christmas is at home)


The sky in town is always orange.
Every night

Orange sky at home.
That was special.

Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.

A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.

Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.

He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.

That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.

A mere illusion.
Mosaic shadowland in black and grey;
Yet in this silent world
Cottages stand, sunwashed,
Long after their demise.

Lured by the past
I wish to enter cool dark doorways;
To draw back faded curtains
And scent the wood-smoke
Within those secret walls.

Forgotten dandies
Watch from under crow-black stovepipe hats;
Memories of Waterloo
As fresh as Vietnam.
The Mutiny still unborn.

Moments after this
Stolen faded second, they turned away
Down Sheep Street to the 'Dog Inn';
For Porter and cold beef.
A clay pipe and cider.

Silent halted streets
****** back to vanished life and rural din,
The reek of horse and men
Now past recall. Lost
Moments. Gone forever.

While in her ghost garden,
Close by the gate and vanished red brick wall.
Anne Wheler, dressed in crinoline
And broad silk ribbons, keeps her
Rendezvous with my gaze.

Two folded sheets of paper
were secreted in his stovepipe hat.
He rehearsed the phrases in his mind
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The smell of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.

A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.

Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed sad and grey.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet away.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the death.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.

He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.

That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
His words will live forever
Like the deeds of Blue and Gray.

The tall man placed his hat on the table by the backdoor. Rubbed his hands together to warm them from the

cold, turned the kettle into a cup that was left on the counter - sipped it and felt the warm coffee flow down his throat.
In walked Bill with his notepad in hand and pen behind his ear. He smiled at Abe and sat by the table.

"Love this hat Abraham." He chuckled.

"Well thank you kindly." Abe replied as he swept it away suspiciously. "Don't think I have disposed of the memory of the last time you complimented my stovepipe."

In came Jack laughing, "How can anyone forget that!"

"Oh great here he is 'three initial man.' Hey Jack, how are the crops shaping up?"

"Oh you should come out with me for dinner Abe, I am having dinner with three shapely crops tonight at Maxwell's Plum."

"I am fine, take this bard with you so that he can stop writing and live a bit."

"Come on Abe you act as if you are scared of the women or maybe you are just scared of the possibility of feeling a sense of that strange and alien emotion you seem to be allergic to - happiness."

"I am not a coward, gentlemen."

“A most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality.”

"Here he goes again quoting himself."
"The whole world, for over 500 years have been misquoting me or quoting me at the most inappropriate moments. Scenes of stupidity being played on stages at every second of the day. I, dear sir, have an unlimited license to quote myself at any moment."

"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed, is more important than any other one thing." Lincoln responded.

"I know that...you said that in some letter to another. So now you are quoting yourself?"

"As Bill over here stated - I have been quoted, misquoted and my words contorted in order to rationalize acts of evil, acts of stupidity or acts of callousness. I may as well quote myself even if it is permissible by you three initial man."

"Jack, I don't feel like going tonight and I feel it is my choice to make."

"A man does what he must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality."

Silence.

"What, I can't quote myself?"

He only appears in the pouring rain
When all the gutters are clogged,
I asked if anyone knew his name
They said, but my ears were blocked.
There wasn’t a thing you could hear out there
For the water, bubbling through,
The rain’s refrain in a noisy drain,
The thunder and lightning too.

You’d see his shadow on distant walls
Thrown there by a gaslight flare,
And catch the shape of his stovepipe hat
Flitting both here and there,
They say he’s waiting for dollymops
Just as they’re starting to run,
As night is chasing the day away
And rain’s blotting out the sun.

Then rumour has it, the Ripper’s back
We’re waiting for blood and gore,
We’re tense, awaiting the first attack,
For that’s what the Ripper’s for.
They say he chews on his victim’s bones
Then eats their liver and all,
The streets will fill with their awful groans
As blood will spatter a wall.

And then the sound of a horses hooves
Pulling a Landau coach,
Its wheels a-rattle on cobblestones
Just as he cuts their throats,
Perhaps he’ll lure them to take a ride
In that black, square box on wheels,
Then all that slashing goes on inside,
God knows how a razor feels.

We sit and muse in the Hemlock Inn
A dollymop on our laps,
And feed the terror they feel within
Filling in most of the gaps.
They turn to us for protection then
So we gain their favours cheap,
And keep on telling those same old tales
Til the bawds curl up, and weep.

Whenever the fog and the mist are thick
And the lamplight’s just a glow,
We make our way to the Hemlock Inn
Where the skirts are raised, you know,
Then say his shadow’s been seen again
Just to make the bawds all shriek,
‘He’s getting ready to pounce, and then…’
He’ll be there again, next week.

David Lewis Paget

Stovepipe hats and whitened spats
suits as sharp as Mothers tongue
yes
it's Sunday at the homestead
no chance to stay or lay in bed
up at the crack where dawn peers back
with a quizzical look,

get the good book
read a verse
then the sermon
nothing worse
except now
we go to church.

school on Sunday?
tomorrow too
and all the week
until
it's through

I wish I was an atheist
and played guitar
drank tequila
sat at the bar

but there's a while to go
before I can grow
up.

Stuffing brittle remnants of dead little bits,
crammed in a stovepipe shaft
had lighted and lit up a huge fireball
over all of my peers and enemies.

It wasn't hard to see at all,
unless you liked living under a rock like me.

It was the sort of thing you regret never having saw,
and the sort of thing, if you were you
you would never see.

I expected to see the stovepipe hats,
the no smoking,
no joking brigade of religion and
that's the truth.

I saw instead
the bed unmade,
the lawmen too tired to
move on a raid,
men moving along with their dope
for the **** which stands rigid at
twelve on the clock.

No preaching now
no eveangelist chants
no rants from the righteous
no one to save us
lockdown has made us
all heathens,

and you will tell me
I need no church
to praise him

this primitive methodist
disagrees
as he tends to the fields
'midst the birds chasing bees.

She's telling me tea,
I don't disagree,
like the weather
we're changeable.