Pilgrimage Plus One …

Month of the dark-sun day

Is come and gone;

Excitement and pilgrimage are over,

Faith may still exist,

If just a little paler than before.

All hope is left behind.

But I am still surrounded by the masses,

The now-uncomfortable neon buzz

Of people’s expectations hemming me in:

Pressures, white-noise and demands.

My hair-trigger patience, screwed down too tight,

Stretched so fine for too-damned long

In denial deference to their suffocating presence,

Their petty wants, the ignoble trinkets they

Think to need, those truths they believe they do not,

The hunchback minotaur shadows that,

Drip by drip, stain their pale-limbo souls,

the noises they make – insect clamour – without speaking,

While they invade my precious spaces, steal my breaths.

This be new-hook moon territory, and

I wish to be done

With the all the demands they impose.

A Windows Machine

Clouds stained and stretched

Like overlapped, pulled thin

Butterfly wings pinned

Around the rolling-silk,

Last-light-of today sun

As it leaks to pale skins after

Sheets of April-vengeance hail.

I’m sitting at a windows machine

Wondering if I can believe the numbers;

Take the cold carborundum pressures.

Here, I truly believe, we could plant,

Could surely grow, might sustain Paradise:

Legacy, pass-along gardens that would

Proudly carry standards out of history

… into the future.