Stonehenge

Poet's Sleep, 1989, Chang Houg Ahn 

The taste is new;

a mellow concoction

of innocence and corruption,

without a sell-by date.

I keep coming back,

like the tongue finds a change

in the mouth; a chipped tooth,

compelling imperfection.

I contradict myself;

conjure burnt offerings

to distract from the foreign,

strum a long melody on a bone comb.

It is still there.

Stubborn and marvelous, circular;

reminding me, like drunken chessmen,

to remain true to my lips.



tk/February 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth back this week in his black and white world...a scrumptious read...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

On Turning Fifty-Six

R.A.D. Stainforth's excellent read

It's the sum
of the first six

triangular numbers,

some kind of

Stonehenge black magic,

being born in '56,

then turning it.

Somebody said,

"Watch your back,

both Abe and Adolf

were shot in the head

at fifty-six ―

both the good and bad

could be targeted."

My Alice was good,

leader of a certain world,

hers no less tragic,

dead at the same age.

But I should be okay ―

my name doesn't begin

with the pyramid A,

I'll avoid theaters,

packing,

and most of all,

politics.

tk, October 2012

Join The Mag creative writing group.

me, October, 2012