Notes From a Church

One of mine –

Of ours perhaps –

Left last week;

But, on the old hill,

With sweeping views

Down to the port

Where big ships wait

To take us further,

Another – if its possible,

Drew closer.

While I’m reminded of a third

(Something special in that number,

That magic-wise company)

In a rich eastern temple

Where burn candles real

And a ghost sends me

Notes from a church.

Meanwhile our October

Becomes my November

And I watch my breaths

Quietly disappear.

Ghost o’ the Blues.

Whip-poor-will guilt -bucket is a tempting dark pit

Filled with born-too-soon moon blues;

My po’ blister’d goin’-nowhere-fast feet don’t fit

My muddy-water, busted shoes.

A fractional tip of another-too-far mile

Weight of the world, tear-blade shoulder

Just ain’t possible fo’ single man-chile

To feel more deserted or get any colder.

Time, Whisky and Friends

As if overstaying

My fragile welcome

Were not enough

I had to fall

Off the wagon again;

Fall so hard I missed my

Leaving-thunder train

By a pocketful of hours.

Now I’m buying

Time, whisky and friends

In a lock-in bar, while,

Outside, in the sodium lit fog

Two hog-jockeys and

A crooked lawman

Take it out of the

Latest version of my god.

Ghost of the Big man

Blows tears through his

Angel horn, like he always did:

Truth is a pale, poor story.


Gondwana’s Opals

“The richest, the rarest of jewels

Were formed in the

Earliest of long-gone seas,

The most chaotic of places …”

The old miner-ghost whispers –

Echo from the desperate-hope past –

Tears so clear in the corners

Of his passion-determined voice.

“My pick was always sharp,

My bucket always empty, but

There are Gondwana‘s opals here,

I just need time to find them.

I would have you believe in me

Until I do.”




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The Speed of Night

Ghost-like in the stage smoke,

And wailing the bonnie blues,

Voice filled with broken-glass pain,

Eyes brimming with silver-god wishes

The runaway is bleeding;

Bleeding for our pleasure – again.

This blonde is lovely-blind;

She cannot see past the

Wildheart babies with

Powder-white faces …

A way back to the top

From here, but she’ll

Sing your story –

Or any one you choose –

For money and a smile.

Don’t shatter what she has,

She’s so pure-blind,

has so little to believe in …

Please don’t tell her that

Nothing is faster than

The speed of night.