Poem, 9/29/14

conflagration of crows
atop a tall tree

calling out a message,
indiscernable

move forward
don't fall in the
river

go home
bake bread
rain's a-comin'
sorrow awaits

bake bread anyway

crows know
but they're mocking advice,
ersatz consolation
for a real prophecy

bake bread anyway

Poem, 10/3/14

She was made for a life in bed.
Often she thought, she'd missed her calling
as a prostitute
or consumptive.

Dying slowly over years,
a public thing.

Where friends and voyeurs
would come and visit,
sit vigil beside her bed.

Or, in the case of the professional choice
 - lady of the evening -
her visitors would climb in
and play.

One way or another
she would not be alone.

As it was, she just stayed in bed
and dreamt of other lives,
of the world outside,

and made no plans at all.