three new poems

Given how archaic it is and how mocked in the public square, I feel a little embarrassed by my rhymed and (relatively) metered verse. Nonetheless ...
 

cupid rejoined

The preacher says the world will end in vice

and piles fear upon my teeming guilt.

The poet claims it will be fire and ice

and writes of greening things that endless wilt.

But I, I think it ends how it began,

with violence, as earth shakes under feet.

With blood and flesh, with woman and with man,

who, in knowing good and evil, evil meet.

I think it ends with arrows, sharp and cruel,

piercing songbirds, rending sinews of a dove.

Birds that, singing, die the deaths of fools,

like those who draw the ire of God with dreams of love. 

- - -

And a couple more, free verse, to offset the embarrassment. 

every little death

Like everyone,

she wants the white horse, and

shining dirigible promises she can buy.

She wants her gemstone cowboy –

a white horse to ride, ride into the sky.

Like him,

she’s all afraid to die, but fears the worst—

runs bedlong, blindly for a lifelong feeling

as she falls headlong toward another little death

and leaves him reeling.


leftovers

She doubts it
but
you know,
she will forget you.

Soon

she'll let you go,
let you drift off into 
that great cloud of witnesses
that shows how she's so...

how easy it is 
to find a man
to wrap around yourself
to say,

"You're beautiful. 
I love you." 

So, smile

and say 
Goodbye
and 

(if you feel generous)  

Good luck.