Zoned Cat

The Poet's Wife

all poems © Poet's Wife, aka LAS, ZonedCat, 1994 -2000

Night Ramblings

Can anybody feel free in flight?
Enter the cold with wings
into the bitter of the forest night?

Be lucid;
bright;
dull;
cantilevered; both cognizant and crazy.

Take the trash to the miasma
and visit a mortified and festering body
by the name of Hull.
Token black.
Negro.
Not white.
AIDS infested and forever allegro.

Keep smiling though,
its only an illusion.
Can't imagine a life without
dissension.
Fear the madness of my
mother's fornication.
Look forward to the holy ascension.
Reap a glorious fruitful
abundant
nightmare of glorification and
costly
bullshit like that.
Mostly,
without justification.

Visual delights;
Moonlit nights;
A fistful of dollars.
For
a few dollars more
you can DIG it.

Inspect the
fortifications of fear
and pray that
you are NOT here!

wan, stultifying, soporific,
anemic, pallid, ashen, bloodless,colorless
ridiculous, ineffectual, foolish, feeble, impotent, powerless, weak , absurd, asinine, inane senseless
narcotic, sedative, tranquilizer

Oh gimme that old time religion.
Oh gimme that old time religion.
Oh gimme that old time religion.

Harlequin's snowcones;
Vampire's lair,
Feeble misery in the air.

Oh gimme that old time religion.
Oh gimme that old time religion.
Oh gimme that old time religion.

Harlequin's snowcones;
Vampire's lair,
Feeble misery in the air.

        raining
sheets of grief
               pounding
           the tin roof
     of my hollow heart
                       screaming
                 sirens far away
                                kindling
                                memories
                    of passions flames
                                        consuming
                                           layers
                                  of supple flesh
                                                 forbidding
                                           tears the echoes
                                         of my shallow past
                                                           chasing
                                                                  dying
                                                                 embers
                                                     of ashen myth into
                                                                       being
                                                                       being
                                                                       being
© 1995

now
empty
blue sky
pink cherry
tree blossoms
garden warbler
sweetly beckons
lover's park bench
grass blade spearing
delicate glistening web
moth struggling to flee
an abandoned cocoon
wound amidst ivy
vines clinging to
wrought iron
gate open
to street
empty
now

thank you ... now go back to journaling. Back

The Circle

Frail blossoms spring from
rough winter barren bark.
Gentle sun heated
breezes weave thru tender bare
limbs...Flick of a squirrels tail.

Moonlit fires burn.
Thunder...bursts of golden fruit...
Leaves shiver. Watery eyes
follow spent embers trailing
sparks turned comets tail.

Below a still dark
world,jaded seeds turn silver,
dancing, falling free,
penetrate the readied soil...
joining for eternity.