The Wasted Philosopher - Lorraine Voss (summer beach reads TXT) 📗

old James is dead you know! she mumbles
as she writes his name, and very slowly
underlines below it.

Tomorrow all these faces drawn
with mouring pain will smile again
but she will see the world in darker tones forever now.
The moon, instead of silvered through
will hang there melacholic blue;
the sun will hide its head in cloud more often.

Their Willow, with its whispy shoud, will hang more weighted; sullen; bowed;
its boughs will bend with greenery untrimmed.
And songbirds who would come to call, will hardly ever show at all.
The feeders will lie prone and unfulfilled.

He shall be missed a million ways, and 'hollowed out' she’ll count the days
‘til underneath an eiderdown
of fresh turned earth and clay,
they’ll make, in time, the Rodin mould.
When wood has gone and all that’s stood
in honour of the love
is wrote:‘Beloved’ on the stone.


I like Twisted Endings

I like twisted endings;
yarns with sprung finales;
fables from the mouths of madmen
rock and ragged round.
Can you guess my Rumplstiltskin?
Do I pipe the way to Hamlin?
Is my hair a tad Rapunzel?
Am I Alice? - Going dowwwn.

In a gown of gold organza
am I heading for the ball
or, all slipperless and waifish
after midnight will I fall
among the Fagin Ali Babas,
will I help tear down The Wall?
Am I Petering and ageless,
am I Thumbalina tall?

Fragile in my straw house,
would you huff and puff me over?
Haricots won’t pay for bull
or weasel half a pound.
When I’m old like Father William
will you take me by the psyche,
shake until release,
then throw my carcass to the ground.

In a finish that’s befitting
of a theatre’s curtain call
resurrect me, like a zombie,
coded write me then install
on the latest gaming consol
with the power to enthrall
so the end, like many endings,
will not really end at all.


Skatwangle Fangledangle

I snagged my loose schimangle
on a angler’s bheetangle
but my terrier: Skatwangle Fangledangle
pulled me free.

The angler went doopidoo
and bashed me with his pampadue;
wee Skatwangle dandtiflew,
dysectipoohed his giblet.

The coppers came and wybberink
and now we’re in the rinkistink.
Quinkymink and quagmire fink!
Humdumperdinck a dumb day.

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Publication Date: 12-13-2010

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