Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Cold Chasm

He used to devour them, wives that is -
sweet, delicate things who gave him
their hearts, three in all over the dark years,
destined sooner or later to look deep
into his vacant eyes and know the desolation
those eyes offered, to comprehend
the cold chasm of pain to which their
innocence and credulity had brought them.

Today two of the former wives stand
an appropriate distance from his grave
and the restless band of participants,
immediate family to be sure, those
who tried but could find nothing else
to do on this blustery day. The ex-wives
each scoop a handful of damp earth
and with spiteful satisfaction throw it
into the gaping mouth of his grave.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Love of bayous

There is no other night like a bayou night,
the air pregnant with expectancy and
mystery, mingling scents of wisteria, trumpet
honeysuckle and gumbo mud like some
Dark Ages alchemist seeking an elusive
golden fragrance. It's a night dark despite
the nearly full moon, a night in which
fireflies pulsate like so many flickering
neon bulbs and the cacophony of insects
is propelled toward an unattainable crescendo.

Mammoth cypress trees line the bayous,
letting fall Spanish moss as strands of ghostly
gray-green hair, and the oppression of dark
is waiting just beyond the searching lantern.
At times the wind moans like a sated lover,
at other times it howls wildly, but it's always
present and always vocal to those who
would listen. There could be fear in such nights,
or there can be a love of the mysteries inherent
with the bayous - I choose the love of the bayous.