“The Unforgiven”

“The Unforgiven”

My sense of yesterday now flown away
by grace but there’s  a  tinge of memory.
I felt her need to leave; she would not stay.
Enraged, her private  hatred now set free,

she spiraled out the door with no goodbye.
Her energy, combustible with  sparks.
Her feet did leave my door without a sigh.
Two sisters, now divided in their hearts.

Oh, evil is the black hole of device
that punishes  the soul and brings such shame;
that warps the mind and turns free will to ice;
the unforgiven buried with the pain.

That memory of hate, my conscience stalks
as never looking back, she turns and walks.

 two sisters 001Lithograph, Miguel Martinez.



<img src=”http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/26/gargle163.png”>


I am held in the comfort of your hands, softly, as the small,  broken wings of a bird.
No cooing is heard as token words cannot fill my breathless need.  Your caress
soothes murmurings of a grieving heart as leaf  brushes leaf.

MVC-005SPhoto by Jacqueline Casey.

“The Love Affair”

<img src=”http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/moonshine.png”>


“The Love Affair”

This man has had his way, deluded me.
My late Casino visit, once espied
Jack’s cold, one  eye with little sympathy
as when I draw a two and three,  then sigh.
His siren song lures all  with tens of tens.
Naïve`te! A roller-coaster ride
addicted to his many shills and sins.

He’ll  bust my  spirit when low blows  abide.
Love is a mountain high or pit! Like life,
may be a deck destructive to your pride.
May bring the brightest to his knees in strife
as all are Counters  in the dealer’s sight.
Oh, dark the day I fell in love with Jack.
He’s taken me aback; my heart_ransacked!

(not to mention my pocketbook, lol)love affair

“Dead Man’s Hand”

“Dead Man’s Hand”

Until the day I die,
I’ll never forget
those glassy, un-blinkin’ eyes.

Old Bill, he stared;
no devil denied.
Across the table,
I saw them eyes.
Surprised , he glared
at the cards in his hand.

Oh, the Queen of Spades
was his low-in-the-hole
‘neath Aces and Eights.

Yeah , Aces and Eights
now drip, drip, drip
in a dead man’s grip.

Left a drop of blood
on Bill’s Queen of Spades.
Left his business card
name of one called “Krel”;
(Some say from Hell)
but a Devil with his
unblinkin’ eyes.

“Satin Moon”

Blue Moon<http://www.yeahwrite.me/speakeasy/#161-open/&gt;



“Satin Moon”

The milky, Flower moon rolls high in May.
A glow of blossoms fill the starry night
and blue, her orb so distant in our day
is home for lovers in their  shadowed flight.
The clouds now shift and cast an ominous show:
shadows on the ground as we  are spellbound.

“The Hanging Gardens of King Sennacherib”


The Hanging Gardens by Dutch artist, Heemskerck
The Hanging Gardens by Dutch artist, Heemskerck

“The Hanging Gardens of King Sennacherib”

Tell me if we are one, my heart’s desire.
I’ll move the earth, a plethora, amaze
where trees shall leap like overhanging fire.
forbidding my true love her homesick gaze.

I’ll build for you a fantasy, divine
where water flows upstream from Tigress shore.
Shaduf  from well of  mystic soul sublime
will quench the thirst for beauty you adore.

Where garden fragrance whispers as it blows:
A time for love’s beginning captured here
among majestic green and golden glow.
This mountain in a desert, tier by tier.

In Nineveh, a lover’s garden, true:

the longing leaves grow wistfully for you.

MVC-005SPhoto by Jacqueline Casey.

Babylon,  means “Gate of the Gods”.  A “plethora”,  refers to size in ancient times 400 feet long and 80 feet high.  Shaduf :  ancient method for transferring water to a higher level, still used today.  Pronunciation:  “shah-DOOF”.  Recent archaeologists found the fabled “Hanging Gardens” located about 350 miles  north of Babylon, in Nineveh (the home of King Sennacherib) and not King Nebuchadrezzar as earlier assumed.

“The Doves”


lovebirds4-best-2(Photo by Jacqueline Casey)

This week’s gargleblaster ultimate question: “Why do birds suddenly appear?”


“The Doves”

My messengers, two doves, of silent wing
did settle just outside my windowsill.
In early light, they stopped their lofty sing.
My knowledge of their wistful pause did thrill:

Heard low moan from their peaceful breast:
“Love calls all to the test.”

“Hope is a Con Man”

“Hope is a Con Man”

Another time; another place might be
but only age gives open eyes to see.
For,  if we were again but seventeen,
we’d stumble, still, as blind to destiny.

Oh, fervent Hope, he is the con man’s ruse.
He holds our breath and makes our heart beat fast.
Yet, all the while, he conjures to confuse.
His artifice;  a love that may not last.

Oh, youth has flown!  When we flew by our seat,
we viewed our space , high, from some mountain’s plain.
Where loose the pebbles roll beneath our feet,
Hope dangles us and leaves us for insane.

But, still, I hear his unforgotten rhyme:
I’m victim to this ploy; no fault of mine.

Rose photo by Michael Bartlett.
Photo: Michael Bartlett.