Editor's Note: On rare occasions, "life happens" and we are unable to get a feature posted. Such was the case yesterday. To compensate for this mishap, please enjoy the following double feature by Frequent Contributor Ross Balcom.
to stone
to stone
Ross Balcom
these
the blank years...
purge all visions
from your mind
let the leprous moon
consume you
you who know
no sun
climb the stairs
at midnight
to her whose loins
await you
loins
already turned
to stone
Poet's Notes: Midnight mineralization negates nookie. This is a rather bleak poem.
a black dog story
*************************************************************************************************************************
a black dog story
a black dog story
I'm telling you
a black dog story
a phantom dog
huge, black
red eyes glowing
on my lawn
at midnight
hellhound
staring through me
a black dog story
I'm telling you
it leapt through me
took my soul
my twisting,
shrieking soul
left me vacant
empty
I lost it
lost it all
in a black dog story
--Ross Balcom
Poet's Notes: Frightening encounters with phantom black dogs are reported worldwide. This is my poetic nod to the phenomenon. (Next up on my terror list: phantom black squirrels.)
Editor’s Note: I personally identify with this poem, as every time I enjoy a cup of tea, I mean every single time, I am always left with "the grim" in the bottom of my cup. I am not sure what that says about me, but it cannot be good. Oh, no.
Editor’s Note: I personally identify with this poem, as every time I enjoy a cup of tea, I mean every single time, I am always left with "the grim" in the bottom of my cup. I am not sure what that says about me, but it cannot be good. Oh, no.
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