Give me that old time religion

 On a rising wind

Distant drumming begins

listen and take heed

You mortal men

Ancient druids whisper low,

"Earth's rhythms, you do not know.

Polluting streams and burning skies,

Your greed destroys, with reckless sighs.

The ancient oaks, they stand and weep,

Their whispers echo in endless sleep.

The winds howl loud, a mournful sigh,

As humans ravage, with a blinded eye.

Awaken, mortals, to nature's plea,

Lest the earth, in ruin, be.

The balance shifts, the future's told,

In harmony with nature, you'll unfold."

Snow plows

 Bastards

I awake in the night

to the sounds of the snowplows

blocking my driveway.

I imagine their maniacal

laughter as they pull away

witchcraft

 

Sacred Spaces

 Sacred Spaces

The trail is full of rocks

and the brambles

tear both skin and shirt

No one has been here

in a while except

Goat, Bear and Pika

There is something spiritual

in this remoteness

among the wind shaped pine

A storm growls

in the distance

and lightning sprites dance

The wind grows colder

and the mountain seems to groan

it is time to go down.

Monkeys with Typewriters

 We poets are all Monkey’s with Typewriters

In cages of flesh,

with fire of thought,

We tap at keys,

by instinct or whim.

A game of chance and rhyme,

An epiphany scrawled,

or gibberish hurled?

A Shakespeare sonnet ,

or monkeys' world?

Each word falls,

a puzzle laid,

‘A world created,

at our fingertips beat.

Poets write

because they have to.

Happy for bananas,

or praise

though money wouldn’t hurt.

The Break up

 The Breakup

I thought Winter  had left me, 

with her cold-hearted ways,

cutting me to the bone.

I was happy to see her go.

now the snow is falling

and the windows are rattling.

Looks like the bitch is back.

                                       ch2024

Red’s Leather and Velvet Bar

 Red’s Leather and Velvet Bar

It was the kind of bar,

that makes you happy

to give it all your money.

A classic 1950’s speakeasy

architecture, long seductive bar

with a back lit display

of rare and expensive booze.

The waitresses wore more ink

than tight mini-skirts

and the skirts were tight.

Tight enough to show

they had nothing to hide,

especially the one who climbs

the ladder to the top shelf.

I fell easily under its spell,

and ordered a Communist.

A gin martini with a cherry

and hammer and sickle,

made out of hot sauce,