Midnight Mourning

MALIZ ONG

Midnight  Mourning 

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight

the motor of my mind a whir - thoughts popping

from hidden chambers as magician’s rabbits to die
immediately - nothing can live in this airless dark  -

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight -

memories joining into Golems-marching mutants

clomping down the corridors of raw recollection

To say you are missed – is to compare a pin-light

to the convocation of all flung stars in the galaxy –

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight

as the fleshed reminder of what was you lay cold

in an actual mortuary –I know. I watched the gurney 

slide into the mouth – myself – metal on metal - 

watched as the van with a phone numbered logo

 made a U-turn and pulled down our driveway 

our driveway where you came home to me – always. 

Yet, even this thought that I prod more or less 

like a rotten tooth falls dead as a soaked autumn leaf – 

thoughts piling into moldering heaps of sodden stench.

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight –

Methinks that this is but the first night of such walks.

I have now joined the matriarchs – alone and strong

for you – Shoulders straight and eyes and mind clear

during the light – but at night – at midnight my darling

I shall wander the mortuary of my mind – searching for

my stolen soul and wake to the sound of our mariachi 
men strumming softly over a vanished horizon 

The Matriarchs’ Tale

Ave Lainesaar

The Matriarchs’ Tale

(a lil bit of sunday fun inspired by Wordling words) 

from the mouths of matriarchs comes the tale

on many a mutuant midnight to warn and regale

the tale of Meth who danced through the night

calling blazing mariachis in hip jutting motor-might

Meth who smiled with teeth so gleaming winter bright

magician, sorceress, not one soul missed

but for one small boy and one small girl all were kissed

only these two no less no maybe more

curled into one another goes the lore

from the mouths of matriarchs goes the tale to spin

that it was only these two innocents left to begin

to begin a dance of love with clear eyes and soul

untouched from the blazing burn of Meth’s black hole

until one midnight as mariachis played

Meth called and a now grown man and woman stayed

Stood strong and firm as about them townspeople bayed

From the mouths of matriarchs comes this tale

of the hold of Meth and the two that did not fall and fail.

And as, the band played on wild and whirling fast

Others drew to the two that seemed to - in love last

That did not fall in gasping breath and grasping lust

More and more turned as Meth burned out to dust

Now the mariachis call only laughter to each soul

All freed from the black bottomed gawping hole  

Really?

Really?

are they still killing
in the name of peace
are children still
stumbling with bloated
bellies too dehydrated
to cry a single tear
from their sobs
are they still skinning
the vanishing species
and smiling into cameras
are they still arguing about
when and where and how
much will it cost and is it
worth it and how can it be
done and if so who will do
it best and what commission
can convene that will calculate
the precise moment of peace
of mind, and nation and world –
Really? after all the creaking
of ropes and the dragging
of chains – the stench of
human ash – the scourge
of dis-ease born of hatred
ignorance and illness un-
checked – Really? We
marched with arm-bands
and flowers in our hair
and sang songs and
laughed dancing into
a future certain to be
lit by eyes sparkling –
untired – untried -so
untested – and yet –
still this graying warrior
aches and wonders – in
heavy eyed mystification –
Really? Really? Really?

I don't never

Gerd Altmann 

I don’t never

I don’t never want to grow tired
of the rising up when others are
down – I don’t never want to grow
tired of hearing about the pain of
others, or turn my head from the
hand outstretched reaching toward
I don’t never want to grow tired of
of the echoes of the past wagging
long fingers of reminders to never
let the swinging, burning, blasting
horrors of the past fall to the future
I don’t never want to grow too tired
to believe in hope and change and
a pinprick light at the end of a long
dark tunnel – I don’t never
want to get too tired to
care but my eyes are
growing heavy
as time passes
as time passes

Cumulonimbus of the soul

Sky Backgrounds Desktop Background Backround Cloud Summer White ...

Cumulonimbus of the soul 

They float as cotton candy

toys for children to shape

as they lay upon their backs

In the green grass of summer

Seeing forms configure in sun

Sometimes they pass with only

a moment of shadow falling over the

the laughter of childhood innocence–

Sometimes they darken and pour

rain upon barefoot children running

Meteorological cumulonimbus oft times

a pastime – other times a rainstorm benign

But then there is the cumulonimbus of the soul

A different breed altogether- these do not float for

Often anger is a lagging latent cloud

rising unseen –from its grave of toxic blood waste

Mercurial and unstable – activated by a simple word

or blade of veritable non-sense that

opens a vein and in an extravagant

Show of outrage - silver thunderheads

gather and chalk the landscape of the soul

from the topmost to inner core until cumulonimbus

explode into storm - pouring-pounding - on and on and on

drowning all in its wake until spent innocent wide-eyed children

peek from their hiding places and when safe

venture out again upon wet green grass

to imagine shapes in the puffs drifting

through blue skies

Cumulonimbus

They float as cotton candy

toys for children to shape

as they lay upon their backs

In the green grass of summer

Seeing forms configure in sun

Sometimes they pass with only

a moment of shadow falling over the

the laughter of childhood innocence–

Sometimes they darken and pour

rain upon barefoot children running

Meteorological cumulonimbus oft times

a pastime – other times a rainstorm benign

But then there is the cumulonimbus of the soul

A different breed altogether- these do not float for

Often anger is a lagging latent cloud

rising unseen –from the its grave of toxic blood waste

Mecurial and unstable – activated by a simple word

or blade of veritable non-sense that

opens a vein and in an extravagant

Show of outrage silver thunderheads

gather and chalk the landscape of the soul

from the topmost to inner core until cumulonimbus

explode into storm - pouring, pounding - on and on and on

drowning all in its wake until spent innocent wide-eyed children

peek from their hiding places and when safe

venture out again upon wet green grass

to imagine shapes in the puffs drifting

through blue skies