Poetry

C C Offline
Wrote and posted a precursor version of this three years ago. Used it in a Halloween GIF back then, then shelved it after that one go. With the season coming up and drawing a blank, I decided to dust it off and radically revise and rearrange it for a new animated avatar. It's mildly sad that the browser dictionary and grammar watchdog don't even know that "scrying" is a word.
- - - - - - -

October Portents

I may have seen the Grim Wife once
In a tall grass glade where the gray cat hunts.
Why she grieves so long after loss
Spans beyond my ken, too cryptic to cross.

Some hedge a boding widow's task
With warming solace from a drinking flask.
Trust they have in such spirits known,
But not those exhumed, oh not those wind blown.

I may have heard the Grim Wife thrice
At a late hour when the owl spots mice.
She's not hopeful like scrying seers;     
Folk bury their eyes, they smother their ears.

If only wailing could relate
Whatever she gleans from the throes of fate.
Is it yours or is it mine or
A far tragedy, on another shore?

I may have felt the Grim Wife's hand
In early shivers from the autumn land.
Distant clouds were gravid with rain 
When old rites took two, both man and son slain.

Fostered by a lingering dread, 
It's the wool local storytellers spread.
None dear lost at an ancient well?  
Just a faded woe, no legend to quell.

I may have breathed the Grim Wife's prayer
In the scented speech of the eldritch air.
Wafting to where the moonlight played
On dark lake ripples, as a red dog bayed.
Reply
C C Offline
Totally rewrote this one. The only thing it has in common with the original (posted three years ago, the one below?) is the title slash refrain.
- - - - - -

Where the hell is Davidson?

Mama looked deeper in the cellar.
Daddy came back from the field.
There just wasn't much we could tell her
Of what a wider search might yield.
We all know he's her favorite one:
Where the hell is Davidson?

He mingled with the maverick crowd,
The poor, the maimed, the outlaws.
Shaming good folk that were only proud,
Reminding them of their flaws. 
When a hood rides in and waves his gun,
Where the hell is Davidson?

Time scrapes away at the flaking paint,
Some day a ceiling will drop.
Trumpet booms grow increasingly faint, 
Our flock meets on the hilltop.
When your chances correlate to none,
Where the hell is Davidson? 

Counting days since the dreaded stars fell;
Along roads, a thick stench reigns.
Waiting for news in a trashed hotel,
Watching rats chew old remains.
Sick of signs, the final stage is done, 
Where the hell is Davidson?

Church keepers climb down from the steeple,
Bewildered by what they've missed.
A thief has stolen seven people,
Those accepted on a list.
We're left here cause of his roguish fun:
Damn to hell that Davidson!
Reply
Zinjanthropos Offline
Figured this would fit in the Ukraine/Russia thread but nah. Political commentary not my thing. Neither is Poots. I meant it as a song with first verse a refrain but whatever. Just jotted it down on iPad when I woke up. I’m still in bed so here goes…..

Drunk on Power

No more boozing
No more snoozing
No more schmoozing
Blood is oozing

It’s so confusing
When you’re losing
Because of choosing
What you’re using

You’re abusing
They’re accusing
You're defusing
They're refusing

It’s not amusing
This overusing
Of your misusing
There’s no excusing
Reply




Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)