Widdershins

Are you looking for a kiss? 

He laughing, spins me widdershins:

For more than a quarter of a century

we come together and split apart

storm-tossed lovers

seeking sanctuary

like sine-waves

oscillating

in counterpoint

in rare conjoining

erratic moments, briefly timed.

Are you looking for a kiss?

He laughing, spins me widdershins:

A flurry of enticement

still-comfortable

and familiar

we sing our tune

from long-ago

it’s melody now deeper with age

yet somehow rattled by worn-out

dreams and lingering hopes, our fantasies.

Are you looking for a kiss?

He laughing, spins me widdershins:

Our arms twine ‘round each other

legs pressed close together

foreheads touch and eyelids flutter

subtle brush, a pilgrim’s kiss

longing, fearing this haunting reminder

of what could have been and sometimes still is

now waking, a gasp, gentle relief

for once this visitation happened only in dream.

Are you looking for a kiss?

He laughing, spins me widdershins.

 

This isn’t like a convenience store

Photo Credit: A  bioluminescent jack-o’-lantern mushroom found in Pisgah National Forest, near Asheville, N.C. Credit Mike Belleme for The New York Times Inspired By: Hunting Mushrooms, and What Makes Some Glow in the Dark  
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Do you not know

some of them glow?

Can’t you find

in this darkling time

the beauty in the rot

the secret, hidden spot

where luciferin and its -ase

combine so slowly, if you please

with oxygen to generate

the chemical energy you seek

of luminescent, twinkling ‘shrooms

brilliance hidden, ‘til new moon

beckons questers such as you

a basket in hand

with mushroom man

stumbling down trails

at the speed of snails

loathe to risk a little light

veiling eyes from the sight

of mycorrhizoid synergy

that beckons gentle foraging

now ended in sodden defeat

back towards home, turn your feet:

“You can’t always get what you want when you want —
This isn’t like a convenience store.”

 

There is no letting go

one musty, mildewed box and then another

are pulled from rafters high above

they land with definitive thuds

dust clouds disguise desire for home

with trembling hands he unpacks meaning

carefully layered in its tissue of lies

as the bones of early days

rattle in time to his failing mantras

of why and how not

what need has he of people

when around him still dwell

souls whom others claim are since long-gone?

 

Reliquary

she no longer knows

what the wooden box holds

where once it held mementoes

the unwritten pages of courage and sorrows

it now gathers tattered, fading petals

cherished letters duly sprinkled

with dust, the withered ink

long since dry

 

Out of Context

Distorted specters of human flesh fused to scale and wing, claw and beak;

bleeding saints tipped into flame by double-headed, horned shades.

Their nightmare visions escape our present-day understanding, although

history opines that people then deemed eyes for eyes as justice well served.

Was it brought upon by churchly fathers fostering fear to dominate?

Or based on actual happenstance of bloody, vengeful, lordly acts?

Methinks the scribblings of today are no less filled with skulking demons.