🚀 go-pugleaf

On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 8:00:55 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 3:16:02 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > EXTREMES 
> > 
> > The Summer sunlight burns my shoulders raw 
> > Streets sizzle in the blaze of August heat, 
> > Each passing breeze a blast from heaven's forge; 
> > While ocean breakers roll in to disgorge 
> > Their cache of scattered shells before my feet, 
> > Pink pebbles, seaweed, kelp, crustacean claw. 
> > 
> > The sunburnt sand scorches my toes and sole 
> > Tans them as tough as cowhide's leathern grain, 
> > My form grows heavy while my head grows light; 
> > But Summer's end already is in sight 
> > And I would rather that the heat remain 
> > Than face the pain that rides on Winter's wing… 
> > 
> > For Summer's scalds can't rival Winter's sting 
> > When heat is culled from blackened lumps of coal. 
> > 
> > -- Michael Pendragon 
> >
> > **** 
> 
> A Slow Dance to Sunrise 
> 
> My eyes remain opened once again 
> studying a ceiling crack running fast 
> toward a deceitful curtain, 
> a curtain that does little to hide, 
> but frames a voyeuristic moon. 
> I squeeze my eyes shut 
> trying to end its midnight stare 
> as a down-filled pillow slowly becomes 
> more an accomplice, 
> to my insomnia. 
> 
> I remember, with scattered thoughts, 
> past sleigh rides, 
> carrot nosed snowmen 
> and an almost caught spring trout, 
> as friends laughed 
> at my ineptitude with 
> a fishing pole… 
> until that slow walk to supper, 
> with the sun setting on another 
> failed try. 
>   
> I have learned to sing 
> with owls over the years, 
> play violin with cricket 
> orchestras, their nocturnal life, 
> being mine 
> all while remembering  
> I forgot once again 
> to call those I promised to-- 
> they sleep tonight, 
> quiet sandman dreams, 
> as I watch minutes 
> become hours, 
> with that moon 
> slowly turning back 
> into a sun 
> and with all of that, 
> always the thought of time 
> shrinking in the rear-view 
> mirror.
------------------------------------------------------------


Ghost Bar

The keyboard ivory is now a soft yellow,
nicotine stained from too many exhales
drifting out between love songs 
and sweat.

 A worn-out suit and dull shoes
once hit the pedals,
no longer a smooth toe-tap
where lyrics rang out their pain 
and in that smoky darkness,
heads nodded, keeping company
with misery and now, the walls retain
refrains from the ravished throats
of a whiskey bleached cry
calling out to past ghosts

The Beats sat in the back
clouded in smoke and smiles,
an impromptu meet with stories
of upheaval and sexual conquest
begging the liver withstands
the hammer blows of brown whiskey
reminiscing of road travels
and howl's at the moon
until it all went quiet,
the revolution now hidden inside
hard cover and stains as death offers
best sellers and broken little boys
and Dylan continues to look out at the faces
all weathered from the storm, all waiting
for the final knock.

Edward Rochester Esq.