🚀 go-pugleaf

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:


Artist's Den

Stooped and wrinkled
 as if weathered by the wind,
she stood in front of august company,
cliffs of reddish clay etched
as if by prehistoric masons.

Her adobe held all magic
as a fire crackled inside,
shadows dancing on sandstone
awaiting her entrance.

She looked to the east
where neon once illuminated
her pose, now, the stars ask her to smile
with little regret.

Edward Rochester Esq.

EL VENGADOR FANTASMA

It's not that I want you dead
I want you to live  instead
So to suffer, to give up
All that they have given up
Embittered will be the sup
Upon what I have saved up
A cold feast harrowed fraught
With all that you have wrought
With terror, offering no quarter
Their haunting will be your horror
With which they now curse thee
Like you, Death knows no mercy
Spirits of vengeance demand repentance
My stare exacts your deserved penance

~~Ash Wurthing

On Tuesday, 2 August 2022 at 22:14:32 UTC-4, Ash Wurthing wrote:
> EL VENGADOR FANTASMA
>
> It's not that I want you dead
> I want you to live instead
> So to suffer, to give up
> All that they have given up
> Embittered will be the sup
> Upon what I have saved up
> A cold feast harrowed fraught
> With all that you have wrought
> With terror, offering no quarter
> Their haunting will be your horror
> With which they now curse thee
> Like you, Death knows no mercy
> Spirits of vengeance demand repentance
> My stare exacts your deserved penance
>
> ~~Ash Wurthing

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 8:39:15 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting: 
> 
> 
> Artist's Den 
> 
> Stooped and wrinkled 
> as if weathered by the wind, 
> she stood in front of august company, 
> cliffs of reddish clay etched 
> as if by prehistoric masons. 
> 
> Her adobe held all magic 
> as a fire crackled inside, 
> shadows dancing on sandstone 
> awaiting her entrance. 
> 
> She looked to the east 
> where neon once illuminated 
> her pose, now, the stars ask her to smile 
> with little regret. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.



Witness


I try, at times,
to forget the past,
looking up
in the night
swiping 
at the moon
with a memory
eraser,
for it has witnessed,
the loves
and tears
and death
but the stars
mock
my futile attempt
knowing,
even with the moon
gone,
they can still 
illuminate
my days,
both past and
present.
 
I now accept
what was
and what
will be,
from this day
forward.

by Edward Rochester Esq.
 
 

On Tuesday, 2 August 2022 at 22:14:32 UTC-4, Ash Wurthing wrote:
> EL VENGADOR FANTASMA
>
> It's not that I want you dead
> I want you to live instead
> So to suffer, to give up
> All that they have given up
> Embittered will be the sup
> Upon what I have saved up
> A cold feast harrowed fraught
> With all that you have wrought
> With terror, offering no quarter
> Their haunting will be your horror
> With which they now curse thee
> Like you, Death knows no mercy
> Spirits of vengeance demand repentance
> My stare exacts your deserved penance
>
> ~~Ash Wurthing

Before I Wake
by NancyGene

Sleep, I’m afraid to lie down.
Down, the street of my fears.
Fear, I know that in dreams.
Dream, I am trying to scream.
Scream, I can’t make a sound.
Sound, of the rasp of my help!

Help, is my waking in tears.
Tears, fill my eyes as I look.
Look, for the light to turn on.
On, and the night is still here.
Here, the threat is too real.
Real, as my soul is to take.

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:

New Day

I’ll say it again. 
We’ve been here before, 
more than six hours in 
to another twenty-four; 
each hour more precious 
than the previous one, 
so let me suggest this: 
Take care, and have fun. 

Take care of your business. 
Take care of your friends. 
Take care of your family, 
then have fun. The End.

On Saturday, 6 August 2022 at 19:07:35 UTC-4, NancyGene wrote:
> Before I Wake 
> by NancyGene 
> 
> Sleep, I’m afraid to lie down. 
> Down, the street of my fears. 
> Fear, I know that in dreams. 
> Dream, I am trying to scream. 
> Scream, I can’t make a sound. 
> Sound, of the rasp of my help! 
> 
> Help, is my waking in tears. 
> Tears, fill my eyes as I look. 
> Look, for the light to turn on. 
> On, and the night is still here. 
> Here, the threat is too real. 
> Real, as my soul is to take.

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:


I’m Afraid I’ve Lost My Way

I’m afraid I’ve lost my way
in the light of the Frigidaire.

That interrupted sleep,
my creep to the sweet
treats that call out my name,
a shame, it was empty,
forgetting the last cookie went in
around midnight 
after its dip into cold coffee.

Do not feel sorry for my senile
Zombie walk, my talk to the wrinkled
curtains that have never kept out
streetlights and full moons.

I was ok once, all words came without
that scratch to a bed head, that fridge
stocked before last sale date, a mate that asked
what was wrong when strength seemed to disappear.

I’ll write a note to self, a list of what came easy
once upon a time, but now I’ve forgotten the Frigidaire
is empty and I’ll stumble back to where dreams
were once sweet. 

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Sunday, August 7, 2022 at 8:52:57 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting:
> I’m Afraid I’ve Lost My Way 
> 
> I’m afraid I’ve lost my way 
> in the light of the Frigidaire. 
> 
> That interrupted sleep, 
> my creep to the sweet 
> treats that call out my name, 
> a shame, it was empty, 
> forgetting the last cookie went in 
> around midnight 
> after its dip into cold coffee. 
> 
> Do not feel sorry for my senile 
> Zombie walk, my talk to the wrinkled 
> curtains that have never kept out 
> streetlights and full moons. 
> 
> I was ok once, all words came without 
> that scratch to a bed head, that fridge 
> stocked before last sale date, a mate that asked 
> what was wrong when strength seemed to disappear. 
> 
> I’ll write a note to self, a list of what came easy 
> once upon a time, but now I’ve forgotten the Frigidaire 
> is empty and I’ll stumble back to where dreams 
> were once sweet. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

----------------------------------------------------



Cat Cries

It's empty down the West-Side Highway
except for a shadow or two hidden back
from curbside, half dancing with feral cats
under blinking blue neon, repeating, 'closed'.

It's never closed, Breslin argues, always someone
having a malted or being slashed for a wallet, 
always someone with a bent spoon cooking the nights snack, 
their eyeroll into never, never land.

There are some setting alarms, morning comes early
for the next shift while outside, the dark holds a space
for the wide-awake finding shadows have all the answers
and sell the most papers. 


Edward Rochester Esq.

On Sunday, 7 August 2022 at 17:22:05 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Sunday, August 7, 2022 at 8:52:57 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > Start posting: 
> > I’m Afraid I’ve Lost My Way 
> > 
> > I’m afraid I’ve lost my way 
> > in the light of the Frigidaire. 
> > 
> > That interrupted sleep, 
> > my creep to the sweet 
> > treats that call out my name, 
> > a shame, it was empty, 
> > forgetting the last cookie went in 
> > around midnight 
> > after its dip into cold coffee. 
> > 
> > Do not feel sorry for my senile 
> > Zombie walk, my talk to the wrinkled 
> > curtains that have never kept out 
> > streetlights and full moons. 
> > 
> > I was ok once, all words came without 
> > that scratch to a bed head, that fridge 
> > stocked before last sale date, a mate that asked 
> > what was wrong when strength seemed to disappear. 
> > 
> > I’ll write a note to self, a list of what came easy 
> > once upon a time, but now I’ve forgotten the Frigidaire 
> > is empty and I’ll stumble back to where dreams 
> > were once sweet. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> ---------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> 
> Cat Cries 
> 
> It's empty down the West-Side Highway 
> except for a shadow or two hidden back 
> from curbside, half dancing with feral cats 
> under blinking blue neon, repeating, 'closed'. 
> 
> It's never closed, Breslin argues, always someone 
> having a malted or being slashed for a wallet, 
> always someone with a bent spoon cooking the nights snack, 
> their eyeroll into never, never land. 
> 
> There are some setting alarms, morning comes early 
> for the next shift while outside, the dark holds a space 
> for the wide-awake finding shadows have all the answers 
> and sell the most papers. 
> 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

On Monday, August 8, 2022 at 2:25:30 AM UTC-4, ME wrote:
> On Sunday, 7 August 2022 at 17:22:05 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote: 
> > On Sunday, August 7, 2022 at 8:52:57 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > > On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > > Start posting: 
> > > I’m Afraid I’ve Lost My Way 
> > > 
> > > I’m afraid I’ve lost my way 
> > > in the light of the Frigidaire. 
> > > 
> > > That interrupted sleep, 
> > > my creep to the sweet 
> > > treats that call out my name, 
> > > a shame, it was empty, 
> > > forgetting the last cookie went in 
> > > around midnight 
> > > after its dip into cold coffee. 
> > > 
> > > Do not feel sorry for my senile 
> > > Zombie walk, my talk to the wrinkled 
> > > curtains that have never kept out 
> > > streetlights and full moons. 
> > > 
> > > I was ok once, all words came without 
> > > that scratch to a bed head, that fridge 
> > > stocked before last sale date, a mate that asked 
> > > what was wrong when strength seemed to disappear. 
> > > 
> > > I’ll write a note to self, a list of what came easy 
> > > once upon a time, but now I’ve forgotten the Frigidaire 
> > > is empty and I’ll stumble back to where dreams 
> > > were once sweet. 
> > > 
> > > Edward Rochester Esq. 
> > ---------------------------------------------------- 
> > 
> > 
> > 
> > Cat Cries 
> > 
> > It's empty down the West-Side Highway 
> > except for a shadow or two hidden back 
> > from curbside, half dancing with feral cats 
> > under blinking blue neon, repeating, 'closed'. 
> > 
> > It's never closed, Breslin argues, always someone 
> > having a malted or being slashed for a wallet, 
> > always someone with a bent spoon cooking the nights snack, 
> > their eyeroll into never, never land. 
> > 
> > There are some setting alarms, morning comes early 
> > for the next shift while outside, the dark holds a space 
> > for the wide-awake finding shadows have all the answers 
> > and sell the most papers. 
> > 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.

I know it’s difficult, but let’s try to keep this near the top. Keep up the great work.

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:



One Inch

Was it bitter whiskey or self-pity
that opened your legs and closed your heart,
signing papers to dissolve your association
with a night's folly, then shoved under the pile
of loathing not only one life, but mine.
 
Now I write with letters you wrote,
though not in disgust but compassion,
for I am unable to reach the dark ghosts
uninvited to your daily fears, only you
knew the totality of pain leaving me an inch
of rational vision and that vision
has only regrets you couldn't see me grow
into what you longed to be.
 
Should I have known you? Perhaps not.
Your silent screams are far removed 
from my shouted joy,
but I thank you nonetheless,
it would have been so easy to lift the lid
and toss my being as trash,
but you didn't do that which tells me
there was a flicker of good mixed into
the contorted vision of your anguish.

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Monday, August 8, 2022 at 8:03:50 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> > Start posting:
> One Inch
>
> Was it bitter whiskey or self-pity
> that opened your legs and closed your heart,
> signing papers to dissolve your association
> with a night's folly, then shoved under the pile
> of loathing not only one life, but mine.
>
> Now I write with letters you wrote,
> though not in disgust but compassion,
> for I am unable to reach the dark ghosts
> uninvited to your daily fears, only you
> knew the totality of pain leaving me an inch
> of rational vision and that vision
> has only regrets you couldn't see me grow
> into what you longed to be.
>
> Should I have known you? Perhaps not.
> Your silent screams are far removed
> from my shouted joy,
> but I thank you nonetheless,
> it would have been so easy to lift the lid
> and toss my being as trash,
> but you didn't do that which tells me
> there was a flicker of good mixed into
> the contorted vision of your anguish.
>
> Edward Rochester Esq.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Monday, 8 August 2022 at 20:03:50 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> > Start posting:
> One Inch
>
> Was it bitter whiskey or self-pity
> that opened your legs and closed your heart,
> signing papers to dissolve your association
> with a night's folly, then shoved under the pile
> of loathing not only one life, but mine.
>
> Now I write with letters you wrote,
> though not in disgust but compassion,
> for I am unable to reach the dark ghosts
> uninvited to your daily fears, only you
> knew the totality of pain leaving me an inch
> of rational vision and that vision
> has only regrets you couldn't see me grow
> into what you longed to be.
>
> Should I have known you? Perhaps not.
> Your silent screams are far removed
> from my shouted joy,
> but I thank you nonetheless,
> it would have been so easy to lift the lid
> and toss my being as trash,
> but you didn't do that which tells me
> there was a flicker of good mixed into
> the contorted vision of your anguish.
>
> Edward Rochester Esq.

On Monday, August 8, 2022 at 6:45:21 PM UTC-4, HC wrote:
> On Monday, August 8, 2022 at 2:25:30 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > On Sunday, 7 August 2022 at 17:22:05 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote: 
> > > On Sunday, August 7, 2022 at 8:52:57 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > > > On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > > > Start posting: 
> > > > I’m Afraid I’ve Lost My Way 
> > > > 
> > > > I’m afraid I’ve lost my way 
> > > > in the light of the Frigidaire. 
> > > > 
> > > > That interrupted sleep, 
> > > > my creep to the sweet 
> > > > treats that call out my name, 
> > > > a shame, it was empty, 
> > > > forgetting the last cookie went in 
> > > > around midnight 
> > > > after its dip into cold coffee. 
> > > > 
> > > > Do not feel sorry for my senile 
> > > > Zombie walk, my talk to the wrinkled 
> > > > curtains that have never kept out 
> > > > streetlights and full moons. 
> > > > 
> > > > I was ok once, all words came without 
> > > > that scratch to a bed head, that fridge 
> > > > stocked before last sale date, a mate that asked 
> > > > what was wrong when strength seemed to disappear. 
> > > > 
> > > > I’ll write a note to self, a list of what came easy 
> > > > once upon a time, but now I’ve forgotten the Frigidaire 
> > > > is empty and I’ll stumble back to where dreams 
> > > > were once sweet. 
> > > > 
> > > > Edward Rochester Esq. 
> > > ---------------------------------------------------- 
> > > 
> > > 
> > > 
> > > Cat Cries 
> > > 
> > > It's empty down the West-Side Highway 
> > > except for a shadow or two hidden back 
> > > from curbside, half dancing with feral cats 
> > > under blinking blue neon, repeating, 'closed'. 
> > > 
> > > It's never closed, Breslin argues, always someone 
> > > having a malted or being slashed for a wallet, 
> > > always someone with a bent spoon cooking the nights snack, 
> > > their eyeroll into never, never land. 
> > > 
> > > There are some setting alarms, morning comes early 
> > > for the next shift while outside, the dark holds a space 
> > > for the wide-awake finding shadows have all the answers 
> > > and sell the most papers. 
> > > 
> > > 
> > > Edward Rochester Esq.
> I know it’s difficult, but let’s try to keep this near the top. Keep up the great work.

Good morning! 

Stay cool, and have a lovely day.

Falling
by NancyGene

Like so many raindrops,
the caring falls off of me.
I hear your words
and have to believe,
have to accept,
and wait for the next storm.

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:



One Night Alone

I just wanted to get away
from it all, breathe alone
keep the TV dark, think about
my old Chevy 
and times when nothing
disturbed and I checked in
grabbed a complimentary donut
and headed to 222, seems
I’ve always seen 222, on clocks,
microwave, cell, not sure why
it wasn’t a surprise
when I was handed the key, 
but it seemed the best to 
not to question but accept 
for my one-night getaway.

Rain was a companion, some drip
from something needing repair
diving onto the sill with an accurate 
cadence,
but all were told of my night away,
keeping worry at a minimum
and thought a hot shower
could be an appetizer to good sleep
but the postage size soap and thimble size
mouth wash
told me to go home.

I didn’t belong where I was
but can say I tried.

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Tuesday, August 9, 2022 at 7:30:30 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting:
> One Night Alone 
> 
> I just wanted to get away 
> from it all, breathe alone 
> keep the TV dark, think about 
> my old Chevy 
> and times when nothing 
> disturbed and I checked in 
> grabbed a complimentary donut 
> and headed to 222, seems 
> I’ve always seen 222, on clocks, 
> microwave, cell, not sure why 
> it wasn’t a surprise 
> when I was handed the key, 
> but it seemed the best to 
> not to question but accept 
> for my one-night getaway. 
> 
> Rain was a companion, some drip 
> from something needing repair 
> diving onto the sill with an accurate 
> cadence, 
> but all were told of my night away, 
> keeping worry at a minimum 
> and thought a hot shower 
> could be an appetizer to good sleep 
> but the postage size soap and thimble size 
> mouth wash 
> told me to go home. 
> 
> I didn’t belong where I was 
> but can say I tried. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

---------------------------------------------------------------------


Castle of Pine


There was no moat
no drawbridge, no armies
to protect a simple castle of pine
but sunshine prevailed,
drifting through adolescent Maple,
dotting the earth where green
would soon overtake dirt and stone,
a rough raked suburban pasture
where young Azalea became
a spring bouquet and welcome mat
invited new neighbors.

Inside, varnished floors and new smells
prevailed and the first look of a room
where a closet would be filled, and drapes hung
and dreams of what will be dominated
the thoughts of youth.

It remains, that castle of pine, the Azalea
now overwhelms the stoop, the Maple seems too large
to stand but stand it does filtering the sunlight
onto memories that cannot be erased, a home
once filled with laughter and tears standing as a monument
to all that was as the years drift by.

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:


Solitary

I look down and see no shadow,
the trees have shadows, as do cars
and fire hydrants,
the local drunk has a shadow,
stumbles when he stumbles
but mine is missing, even when tested
with a small hop or raised arm.

I’m dead I assume, walking dead
but music I hear drifting from clubs,
shouts I hear, punctuating the night
from behind closed curtains
and I’m left knowing death is real
as I test a mirror, shop window,
perhaps a puddle, no, nothing there,
I’m dead.

It seems memory has run away,
what road did I travel to get to where
I used to be, the lovers have no faces
as I spin out into blackness.

There is a small tear, a white handkerchief
pressed to a blank face, an echo of name
but it’s as lost as my shadow, 
my run in slow motion, takes me in circles.

My eyes have stopped blinking.

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Tuesday, August 9, 2022 at 6:27:49 PM UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting:
> Solitary 
> 
> I look down and see no shadow, 
> the trees have shadows, as do cars 
> and fire hydrants, 
> the local drunk has a shadow, 
> stumbles when he stumbles 
> but mine is missing, even when tested 
> with a small hop or raised arm. 
> 
> I’m dead I assume, walking dead 
> but music I hear drifting from clubs, 
> shouts I hear, punctuating the night 
> from behind closed curtains 
> and I’m left knowing death is real 
> as I test a mirror, shop window, 
> perhaps a puddle, no, nothing there, 
> I’m dead. 
> 
> It seems memory has run away, 
> what road did I travel to get to where 
> I used to be, the lovers have no faces 
> as I spin out into blackness. 
> 
> There is a small tear, a white handkerchief 
> pressed to a blank face, an echo of name 
> but it’s as lost as my shadow, 
> my run in slow motion, takes me in circles. 
> 
> My eyes have stopped blinking. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

Top of the world, ma!

On Tuesday, 9 August 2022 at 07:35:20 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 9, 2022 at 7:30:30 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > Start posting: 
> > One Night Alone 
> > 
> > I just wanted to get away 
> > from it all, breathe alone 
> > keep the TV dark, think about 
> > my old Chevy 
> > and times when nothing 
> > disturbed and I checked in 
> > grabbed a complimentary donut 
> > and headed to 222, seems 
> > I’ve always seen 222, on clocks, 
> > microwave, cell, not sure why 
> > it wasn’t a surprise 
> > when I was handed the key, 
> > but it seemed the best to 
> > not to question but accept 
> > for my one-night getaway. 
> > 
> > Rain was a companion, some drip 
> > from something needing repair 
> > diving onto the sill with an accurate 
> > cadence, 
> > but all were told of my night away, 
> > keeping worry at a minimum 
> > and thought a hot shower 
> > could be an appetizer to good sleep 
> > but the postage size soap and thimble size 
> > mouth wash 
> > told me to go home. 
> > 
> > I didn’t belong where I was 
> > but can say I tried. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> Castle of Pine 
> 
> 
> There was no moat 
> no drawbridge, no armies 
> to protect a simple castle of pine 
> but sunshine prevailed, 
> drifting through adolescent Maple, 
> dotting the earth where green 
> would soon overtake dirt and stone, 
> a rough raked suburban pasture 
> where young Azalea became 
> a spring bouquet and welcome mat 
> invited new neighbors. 
> 
> Inside, varnished floors and new smells 
> prevailed and the first look of a room 
> where a closet would be filled, and drapes hung 
> and dreams of what will be dominated 
> the thoughts of youth. 
> 
> It remains, that castle of pine, the Azalea 
> now overwhelms the stoop, the Maple seems too large 
> to stand but stand it does filtering the sunlight 
> onto memories that cannot be erased, a home 
> once filled with laughter and tears standing as a monument 
> to all that was as the years drift by. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

UOn Tuesday, 9 August 2022 at 07:35:20 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 9, 2022 at 7:30:30 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > Start posting: 
> > One Night Alone 
> > 
> > I just wanted to get away 
> > from it all, breathe alone 
> > keep the TV dark, think about 
> > my old Chevy 
> > and times when nothing 
> > disturbed and I checked in 
> > grabbed a complimentary donut 
> > and headed to 222, seems 
> > I’ve always seen 222, on clocks, 
> > microwave, cell, not sure why 
> > it wasn’t a surprise 
> > when I was handed the key, 
> > but it seemed the best to 
> > not to question but accept 
> > for my one-night getaway. 
> > 
> > Rain was a companion, some drip 
> > from something needing repair 
> > diving onto the sill with an accurate 
> > cadence, 
> > but all were told of my night away, 
> > keeping worry at a minimum 
> > and thought a hot shower 
> > could be an appetizer to good sleep 
> > but the postage size soap and thimble size 
> > mouth wash 
> > told me to go home. 
> > 
> > I didn’t belong where I was 
> > but can say I tried. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> --------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> Castle of Pine 
> 
> 
> There was no moat 
> no drawbridge, no armies 
> to protect a simple castle of pine 
> but sunshine prevailed, 
> drifting through adolescent Maple, 
> dotting the earth where green 
> would soon overtake dirt and stone, 
> a rough raked suburban pasture 
> where young Azalea became 
> a spring bouquet and welcome mat 
> invited new neighbors. 
> 
> Inside, varnished floors and new smells 
> prevailed and the first look of a room 
> where a closet would be filled, and drapes hung 
> and dreams of what will be dominated 
> the thoughts of youth. 
> 
> It remains, that castle of pine, the Azalea 
> now overwhelms the stoop, the Maple seems too large 
> to stand but stand it does filtering the sunlight 
> onto memories that cannot be erased, a home 
> once filled with laughter and tears standing as a monument 
> to all that was as the years drift by. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

On Sunday, 7 August 2022 at 05:32:42 UTC-4, HC wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting: 
> 
> New Day 
> 
> I’ll say it again. 
> We’ve been here before, 
> more than six hours in 
> to another twenty-four; 
> each hour more precious 
> than the previous one, 
> so let me suggest this: 
> Take care, and have fun. 
> 
> Take care of your business. 
> Take care of your friends. 
> Take care of your family, 
> then have fun. The End.

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

*****

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.

On Thursday, 11 August 2022 at 20:00:55 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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.

FIRE ISLAND FERRY

We bound across the waves at frantic pace
Our windblown hair whipped back like flapping sails;
The salt air plants its kiss upon your face
As scudded waves sweep back like white smoke trails
From airplanes shooting arrows at the clouds.

A snapshot captures lovers in the sun
Wide eyes half-hid behind their smoky shades,
Embarking on a day of Summer fun
Of seaside concerts, cocktails, lemonades --
A voyage far away from city crowds

And workday cares.  A stay-cay to recall
When sunbrowned sailors set their course for Fall.

-- Michael Pendragon

*****

On Thursday, 11 August 2022 at 15:16:02 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 
> 
> *****

On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 9:38:25 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> FIRE ISLAND FERRY
>
> We bound across the waves at frantic pace
> Our windblown hair whipped back like flapping sails;
> The salt air plants its kiss upon your face
> As scudded waves sweep back like white smoke trails
> From airplanes shooting arrows at the clouds.
>
> A snapshot captures lovers in the sun
> Wide eyes half-hid behind their smoky shades,
> Embarking on a day of Summer fun
> Of seaside concerts, cocktails, lemonades --
> A voyage far away from city crowds
>
> And workday cares. A stay-cay to recall
> When sunbrowned sailors set their course for Fall.
>
> -- Michael Pendragon
>
> *****

Fire Island Fairytale

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.

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.
--------------------------------------------------------

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.

On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> Start posting:

Morning Wood 

Don’t worry, I won’t be posting any deck pics. 
Nobody needs to see my worn out old deck 
to know that it won’t stand up to inspection. 

So, I’ll be pounding my deck today like there’s 
no tomorrow, because it needs the attention. 
It’s not a big deck, so this shouldn’t take long.

On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 08:47:57 UTC-4, HC wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting:
> Morning Wood 
> 
> Don’t worry, I won’t be posting any deck pics. 
> Nobody needs to see my worn out old deck 
> to know that it won’t stand up to inspection. 
> 
> So, I’ll be pounding my deck today like there’s 
> no tomorrow, because it needs the attention. 
> It’s not a big deck, so this shouldn’t take long.

On Thursday, 11 August 2022 at 21:38:25 UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> FIRE ISLAND FERRY
>
> We bound across the waves at frantic pace
> Our windblown hair whipped back like flapping sails;
> The salt air plants its kiss upon your face
> As scudded waves sweep back like white smoke trails
> From airplanes shooting arrows at the clouds.
>
> A snapshot captures lovers in the sun
> Wide eyes half-hid behind their smoky shades,
> Embarking on a day of Summer fun
> Of seaside concerts, cocktails, lemonades --
> A voyage far away from city crowds
>
> And workday cares. A stay-cay to recall
> When sunbrowned sailors set their course for Fall.
>
> -- Michael Pendragon
>
> *****

On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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.

On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 08:47:57 UTC-4, HC wrote:
> On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > Start posting:
> Morning Wood 
> 
> Don’t worry, I won’t be posting any deck pics. 
> Nobody needs to see my worn out old deck 
> to know that it won’t stand up to inspection. 
> 
> So, I’ll be pounding my deck today like there’s 
> no tomorrow, because it needs the attention. 
> It’s not a big deck, so this shouldn’t take long.

On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:09:20 AM UTC-4, ME wrote:
> On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 08:47:57 UTC-4, HC wrote:
> > On Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 2:03:48 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > Start posting: 
> > Morning Wood 
> > 
> > Don’t worry, I won’t be posting any deck pics. 
> > Nobody needs to see my worn out old deck 
> > to know that it won’t stand up to inspection. 
> > 
> > So, I’ll be pounding my deck today like there’s 
> > no tomorrow, because it needs the attention. 
> > It’s not a big deck, so this shouldn’t take long.

I don’t have anything else to add at present, 
but thanks bumping the thread as a reminder.

On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote:
> On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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.
-----------------------------------------------------------

When the Days are Done 
            
They’re going to miss me, right?
those birds and trees, planes and bees,
isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
and peanut butter, the crossing guard,
the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog
or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals
filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed,
the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand,
good humor man, alligators and crocodiles,
scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes.

They’re going to miss me, right?
garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen
roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes,
dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush,
hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van,
the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs,
BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends.

They’re going to miss me, right,
or has it all been for nothing?

I know I’m going to miss them.

Edward Rochester Esq.
 

On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:17:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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.
> ----------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> When the Days are Done 
> 
> They’re going to miss me, right? 
> those birds and trees, planes and bees, 
> isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
> and peanut butter, the crossing guard, 
> the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog 
> or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals 
> filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed, 
> the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand, 
> good humor man, alligators and crocodiles, 
> scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes. 
> 
> They’re going to miss me, right? 
> garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen 
> roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
> the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes, 
> dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush, 
> hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van, 
> the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
> poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs, 
> BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends. 
> 
> They’re going to miss me, right, 
> or has it all been for nothing? 
> 
> I know I’m going to miss them. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------


Congratulations

So, we arrive
possibly from the womb
of an imperfect mother
or perhaps the seed
of a drunken father
but unlike a new colt
we stagger, 
held up by harness
or perhaps the hands
of a drunken father
as wheels carry us
down broken sidewalks
until the walk begins,
expression, the tears and smiles
start to fill imperfect babies
until, set free,
the ride becomes all yours.

The observation
of an imperfect world
is settled with the perfect sunset
or the perfect world
becomes the needle
and slow nod--
perhaps the black and whites
of Weegee shows the anguish,
the wheat of Van Gogh, the beauty
as seen through an imperfect mind.

Percentages are tabulated,
the perfect voice disintegrates
into slur, the farmers till
as the stew cooks, those beams 
inside the barn looks strong enough
to hold the weight
until the dinner bell distracts
as the headlines tell all
of the perfect hideaway for two
in Cancun.

Is it all carved out before the walk?

Me, I got lucky, imperfect as I am
my Wallenda walk got me to the other side
just about scar-free.

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:32:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote:
> On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:17:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > > On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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. 
> > ----------------------------------------------------------- 
> > 
> > When the Days are Done 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > those birds and trees, planes and bees, 
> > isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
> > and peanut butter, the crossing guard, 
> > the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog 
> > or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals 
> > filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed, 
> > the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand, 
> > good humor man, alligators and crocodiles, 
> > scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen 
> > roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
> > the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes, 
> > dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush, 
> > hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van, 
> > the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
> > poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs, 
> > BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right, 
> > or has it all been for nothing? 
> > 
> > I know I’m going to miss them. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> Congratulations 
> 
> So, we arrive 
> possibly from the womb 
> of an imperfect mother 
> or perhaps the seed 
> of a drunken father 
> but unlike a new colt 
> we stagger, 
> held up by harness 
> or perhaps the hands 
> of a drunken father 
> as wheels carry us 
> down broken sidewalks 
> until the walk begins, 
> expression, the tears and smiles 
> start to fill imperfect babies 
> until, set free, 
> the ride becomes all yours. 
> 
> The observation 
> of an imperfect world 
> is settled with the perfect sunset 
> or the perfect world 
> becomes the needle 
> and slow nod-- 
> perhaps the black and whites 
> of Weegee shows the anguish, 
> the wheat of Van Gogh, the beauty 
> as seen through an imperfect mind. 
> 
> Percentages are tabulated, 
> the perfect voice disintegrates 
> into slur, the farmers till 
> as the stew cooks, those beams 
> inside the barn looks strong enough 
> to hold the weight 
> until the dinner bell distracts 
> as the headlines tell all 
> of the perfect hideaway for two 
> in Cancun. 
> 
> Is it all carved out before the walk? 
> 
> Me, I got lucky, imperfect as I am 
> my Wallenda walk got me to the other side 
> just about scar-free. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.
------------------------------------------------------------

Kerouac 


You went and drank it all away 
blowing up a liver before that river 
crossing into peaceful pines. 

Your road of sour mash 
led through the valley of Ginsberg 
down Corso gullies 
and into the burrow of Burroughs. 

At the foot of Steve Allen's piano, 
you jazzed the words before annihilation 
and depths of a liquor locker room break-in. 

You held tight to the chair to your right 
as Firing Line aimed and shot into your bloodshot 
sneer with a fumble to light that cigar. 

Ginsberg looked on, half embarrassed 
at the mascot named Beat leader 
wanting nothing more than to beat the leader 
off the stage and into his dirty chamber. 

Kerouac at 47 gave up the throne, 
his liver told him no more, 
the Beat was beat, forevermore. 

Edward Rochester Esq.

On Saturday, 13 August 2022 at 09:32:15 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:17:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > > On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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. 
> > ----------------------------------------------------------- 
> > 
> > When the Days are Done 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > those birds and trees, planes and bees, 
> > isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
> > and peanut butter, the crossing guard, 
> > the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog 
> > or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals 
> > filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed, 
> > the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand, 
> > good humor man, alligators and crocodiles, 
> > scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen 
> > roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
> > the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes, 
> > dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush, 
> > hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van, 
> > the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
> > poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs, 
> > BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right, 
> > or has it all been for nothing? 
> > 
> > I know I’m going to miss them. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> Congratulations 
> 
> So, we arrive 
> possibly from the womb 
> of an imperfect mother 
> or perhaps the seed 
> of a drunken father 
> but unlike a new colt 
> we stagger, 
> held up by harness 
> or perhaps the hands 
> of a drunken father 
> as wheels carry us 
> down broken sidewalks 
> until the walk begins, 
> expression, the tears and smiles 
> start to fill imperfect babies 
> until, set free, 
> the ride becomes all yours. 
> 
> The observation 
> of an imperfect world 
> is settled with the perfect sunset 
> or the perfect world 
> becomes the needle 
> and slow nod-- 
> perhaps the black and whites 
> of Weegee shows the anguish, 
> the wheat of Van Gogh, the beauty 
> as seen through an imperfect mind. 
> 
> Percentages are tabulated, 
> the perfect voice disintegrates 
> into slur, the farmers till 
> as the stew cooks, those beams 
> inside the barn looks strong enough 
> to hold the weight 
> until the dinner bell distracts 
> as the headlines tell all 
> of the perfect hideaway for two 
> in Cancun. 
> 
> Is it all carved out before the walk? 
> 
> Me, I got lucky, imperfect as I am 
> my Wallenda walk got me to the other side 
> just about scar-free. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.

On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 10:08:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote:
> On Saturday, 13 August 2022 at 09:32:15 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote: 
> > On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:17:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > > On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > > > On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com 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. 
> > > ----------------------------------------------------------- 
> > > 
> > > When the Days are Done 
> > > 
> > > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > > those birds and trees, planes and bees, 
> > > isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
> > > and peanut butter, the crossing guard, 
> > > the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog 
> > > or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals 
> > > filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed, 
> > > the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand, 
> > > good humor man, alligators and crocodiles, 
> > > scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes. 
> > > 
> > > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > > garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen 
> > > roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
> > > the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes, 
> > > dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush, 
> > > hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van, 
> > > the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
> > > poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs, 
> > > BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends. 
> > > 
> > > They’re going to miss me, right, 
> > > or has it all been for nothing? 
> > > 
> > > I know I’m going to miss them. 
> > > 
> > > Edward Rochester Esq. 
> > ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> > 
> > 
> > Congratulations 
> > 
> > So, we arrive 
> > possibly from the womb 
> > of an imperfect mother 
> > or perhaps the seed 
> > of a drunken father 
> > but unlike a new colt 
> > we stagger, 
> > held up by harness 
> > or perhaps the hands 
> > of a drunken father 
> > as wheels carry us 
> > down broken sidewalks 
> > until the walk begins, 
> > expression, the tears and smiles 
> > start to fill imperfect babies 
> > until, set free, 
> > the ride becomes all yours. 
> > 
> > The observation 
> > of an imperfect world 
> > is settled with the perfect sunset 
> > or the perfect world 
> > becomes the needle 
> > and slow nod-- 
> > perhaps the black and whites 
> > of Weegee shows the anguish, 
> > the wheat of Van Gogh, the beauty 
> > as seen through an imperfect mind. 
> > 
> > Percentages are tabulated, 
> > the perfect voice disintegrates 
> > into slur, the farmers till 
> > as the stew cooks, those beams 
> > inside the barn looks strong enough 
> > to hold the weight 
> > until the dinner bell distracts 
> > as the headlines tell all 
> > of the perfect hideaway for two 
> > in Cancun. 
> > 
> > Is it all carved out before the walk? 
> > 
> > Me, I got lucky, imperfect as I am 
> > my Wallenda walk got me to the other side 
> > just about scar-free. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Reasonable Doubt

As day turns dark, thoughts of murder enter my mind,
well placed bullets into ignorance, the nod 
of simultaneous agreement
as if tethered to strings of puppets.

No names, mind you, court records will not show premeditation,
as ‘innocent’ is shouted out from black robes of sanity…
but alas, I don’t have enough ammunition to rid all, just imagination
which I am allowed under the Constitution.

Just thoughts, mind you, as a commercial runs
on Duck Dynasty, a place where I gather insight,
and the courage
that fuels capitol offense thoughts.

Edward Rochester Esq.