Stranger in Old Town

You thought I knew my way around
but those streets all look the same at night.
All of the shops and cafés closed at ten
and there was no one about after that
(except for a thin suspicious cat
and a pigeon I heard cooing from a balcony.)

I twisted my foot on a cobbled sidestreet.
The roses were crushed when I fell.
I left them there in the darkness.
The wind blew some of the petals away.

I knew the direction of the public beach.
I went there and sat in the sand.
I watched the waves tumble in the moonlight.
I fell asleep a few times.

I dreamed I was a clown in the circus
but no one laughed at my antics.

In the grey morning, before the markets opened,

I caught a city bus and went home.

In dulcet slumber, the amaranth

In dulcet slumber, the amaranth

fondly dreamed of amber blessedness

dripping like honey from golden billows

that lazed across the skies of June.

Sonorous breezes pervaded her blossoms

and sweetened her nectar with an aria-wine.

But while intoxicated with such melodious delights,

she was abruptly awakened by omens of rain.

The End of Winter

Serene and wistful, like a widowed centenarian,
whisper-gusts wander through the winter wheat
beneath the alabaster mountains of the moon
that gleam behind a fraying cirrus-veil.

The elderly season, in quiescent assent,
dwindles and fades gently away,
knowing that the vibrant débutantes of Spring
are burgeoning behind her and dancing for joy.

The Sky-battle

The war-hungry cloud-minions
lay siege to the nighttime heavens.
With a vicious surge, they defeated
even valiant Orion and the Sickle-Moon.
Bright lightning, like electrified veins,
throbbed in the forehead of the angry sky
while, with a rumbling and arrogant roar,
the Storm-Tyrant proclaimed: "I am come!"

The Dreamer

What follows now, gentlemen, is a detailed account of what I observed in the study of Mr. Jonathan Milton on the evening of June 18th, 1897, while I was a guest at his home in Bexleyheath:

There were detailed maps of the Moon in various phases,
meticulously inked onto crisp parchments,
along with a small deceased Falco peregrinus
stretched out and pinned to a framed canvas.
An elegant bronze goblet half-filled with rosemary water
stood beside a bowl of rotting pears and pomegranates.
A sputtering white candle, melted down to a mere nub,
had spilled its wax in hardening mounds out upon the desk.
The grey-bearded gentleman was seated there,
with his head resting serenely on the parchments,
and he held a dry feather-quill in his gaunt hand.
White moths with their powdered wings
fluttered like snow against the windowpane,
again and again, out in the slumbering darkness.
The man then stirred and spoke out in his sleep:
O Luna! Luna! Ego veni te hodie nox!

Plaids and Polka Dots

Dearest Johanna,

After all those years,
your words were often as fresh in my ears
as Christmas carols in springtime.

We walked through wild and vibrant hues
clothed in blacks and navy blues,
speaking with words that almost rhymed,
like cherry-lime and eglantine.

But such as it was, it was fine.

Though we were paired
like plaids and polka dots,
stripes and spots,
country-fried okra and kumquats,
you loved me well
and I adored you so;
it was swell.

But now -
now it is over.
So, my love, farewell.

Your loving Henry.

I placed the note back on the ground,
upon the grave where it was found.