GARDEN
OF DREAMS
The sky
weeps
giant
drops
of oily
gray
over
rotted,
slimy
vegetables
poking
wilted heads
through
black,
greasy
earth.
A thousand
flies
fill the
thick,
steamy air
with a
discordant,
pulsing
hum
while
budding
trees
wretch
and green
bushes
vomit.
My garden
is toxic
with anger
and
poisonous
from pain,
as dead
dreams
float
through
indifferent
skies;
the
verdant
spring
plants
singing a
silent
dirge,
as they
circle
the
stench-filled
graveyard
that was
once
my garden.
MIDNIGHT IN SPRING
We walk
silently
as two
cats
through
a field
at midnight.
For the
moon
is
sleeping
in a
fairy-ring
of
mist,
while
the stars
wink
down
in
silence.
We
embrace
beneath
an old
twisted
oak;
its
gray branches
pushing
out
pellets
of green
leaf-buds,
while
we join
in
nature's
verdant
song
like
nightingales,
as the
cool
spring
evening
wraps
us up
in
ribbons
of
black velvet.
ON THE ROPE
(A
Metaphor)
Watch
closely now
as I
plant trembling legs
one in
front of the other
out
slowly onto
the
wobbling rope.
Let
your eyes pop
and
your lips
form
silent words
while
the nervous laughter
leaks
through to
my
pulsing ears.
Watch
closely now
as I
attempt
to walk
upon
white-knuckled
hands
while
the laughter
morphs
to rusty chortles
and
eyes of fire
begin
to pierce
my
throbbing skull.
For
holding each end
of the
frayed rope
squats
a squinty-eyed,
drooling
creature,
poking
my chest
and
jabbing my head
with
silent, shared words:
“Should
we do it?
Let's
shake the rope!”
[KENNETH N COOK]
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