🚀 go-pugleaf

On Friday, August 12, 2022 at 7:12:57 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> 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.
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Read All About It

The rockets’ red glare
has been abused,
go find the culprit, that inky
newspaper print
leaving DNA over the tip
of destruction or instruction
depending on who wraps
the pulsating veins
but today it's my hand,
all mine
having to manipulate the news read
out of me
grabbing my good news friend
standing tall among the ruins,
not sad and bent in despair
but full
five four three two won,
giving proof through the night
my flag was still there.

Oh, say can you see,
oil drums now the coffins
of bad wives,
cement stock skyrockets
on the Dow
get in on it while you can
before all missing persons
give it away--
cops providing proof
through the night
that my flag was still there
or was it?

Hide your children
hide the homeless
hide the perverts
hide the politicians
hide the fallen soldiers
hide the newspaper print,
smudged image of my guilt.

But I'm innocent
till proven
I committed the crime
of not caring, because I do
no matter what they say
my flag is still there,
the rockets’ red glare...
slightly used.

Edward Rochester Esq.