June-August 2013

Feliz Cumpleaños, Feliz Aniversário,  Happy Birthday!  Three by 3  is one year young!

So, for the occasion, this posting is comprised of  poems written after June 2012, the launching date of the site.

“Re-Possessed”  was begun in early 2012 and finished mid year.  A version of  ” This Pawnbroker Is Worth Your While” was written in 2008, revised in 2012, and published in 2013.  “A Cabaret Called Janus” was writtten in late 2012.

 

                                          Re- Possessed

 

                                        By dawn any vampire still prowling around
                                                                                        is as good as doomed.
                                        It’s his turn to run scared,
                                                                              faster than the speed of daylight,
                                                                                         toward an abandoned graveyard…

                                         The name on the gate belongs to a family that lived
                                                                                            high and mighty  in yonder castle.

                                         He’s their last of kin. Has been since the serfs went
                                                                                        on a rampage, breaking in,
                                                                                               looting, armed with knives
                                                                                                                        and scythes.

                                         Hiding in the cemetery saved him.  An angel or devil had them
                                                                                                  combing the forest, until rain
                                                                                                             and darkness finally fell,
                                                                                                                      ending the threat.

                                         Then came the Count’s revenge. On moonless nights he rises
                                                                                               to the occasion: blazing red eyes,
                                                                                                   hand grown claws, fanged like a bat,
                                                                                                             shrouded in a hooded cloak.

                                         Some die of fright, others bled to death. Either way appeases him.
                                                                                                   What the serfs sowed, so
                                                                                                        shall they reap. All of them.

                                         His down time’s spent in a coffin. It lies low, but not buried,
                                                                                                    under a bush by the gate…
                                                                                                              as a whole, beyond suspicion.

                                         Once inside, he can rest on his laurels, sleep off the craving
                                                                                                     that drove him to drink, wake up
                                                                                                             feeling like a new man.

 

                                    This Pawnbroker Is Worth Your While 

 

 

 A sign on the door reads
 welcome in several languages;
 another says OPEN, most of the time.

 Ready to enter?
 Lots of watches in the window:
 silver, gold, old new…
 all ticking it’s now
 or never.

 Neon arrows point out
 where appraisals are done:
 up front, by the owner,
 free of charge, no questions asked.
 They pulse off and on,
 turning white as a halo
 around their target.

                                      First published in sandhill review

 

 

       A Cabaret Called Janus

 

    Downstairs, posters flatter the lobby
    with a wall of fame.
    Highlighted by a chandelier,
    one star shines after another,
    starting from left to right.

 

    The man in the dressing room
    looks like the magician
    among them.
    He’s wearing a white tux, matching
    cape and sash, fake mustache,
    same pearl turban.
    The poster also shows him
    waving a wand of lightning
    over a fiery hoop.

 

     On weekends he appears
     after midnight, prime time
     for a full house.
     His fans watch closely,
     never miss a trick.

      Soon a blinking buzzer
      will upstage the mirror.
      By then he should be
      all made up, or not.

 

 

 

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