To sing the Plague song

Too thin to help now,
with your lacy veil
a white sinew
you see through
the darkest of times.
It is clear
little can be done
to make it any lighter.

Two threads easily slip
through your shining armor.
The stars know they are the
pommel, the knot at the end.

To ashes, all that remains
can only be folded back in,
the way the body blocks,
and a shadow cast.

Only to catch
a crescent moon.

One twisted wick will
melt the whole ball of wax.



Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Going along with Grandpa

I liked it when we walked around the block,
talked shop, nothin' doin', smelling grass in the sunshine.

You told me silly rhymes, fishing for my giggles,
which grew like weeds, like me, you said, a daisy.

That song you sang about the starving old lady, now seems sad,
she had 49 kids...Instead, it made my mouth melt for gingerbread.

And I still sing that stinkin' Navy song, that is even more racially wrong
about a girl from Yokohama then along came a Joe asking 'bout Tokyo.

(I rolled my eyes, I despised it,
but I memorized it, just a bit)

Your tassle-toed loafer swagger, in your plaid pants pleated a la putting pose.
The flagstick handle for a fuschia shirt on fire, your tongue pinned to cheek.

Dewy Sunday mornings were the best you said, when people pray
I caught you looking up too. It wasn't for the ball, after all.

Sometimes I can still hear your pocket change jangling and muffled
against your copper chain bracelet, I hear the handcuffs of ghosts.

After all this time I thought you were just entertaining me,
showing me to build fractals, but you were really gardening, planting seeds
                                                                      growing the chance of epiphany.