An orange moon. I see the lives
Of neighbors, mapped and marred
Like all the wars ahead, and R.
Insane, B. with his throat cut,
Fifteen years from now, in Omaha.

I did not know them then.
My airedale scratches at the door.
And I am back from seeing Milton Sills
And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old.
The porchlight coming on again.

Weldon Kees

He cut through the canvas
Like ripping open a letter

To find the sleepy human
Contents which he knifed.

From her snug sleeping
bag all the tourist could see

Were the twitching ears of a cow
And a blade as the murderer

Paddled on all fours
On the drenched groundsheet.

And when all the movement had stopped,
Still with his invented face

He blew warm steam from his
Slippery nostrils and licked

With the single muscle of his tongue
The gore.

And then moved off into the forest
Where real cows stepped quietly among

The trees, their careful feet now
And then cracking twigs until his

Shovelling nose came across the green
Membrane of another tent

Where, within, a half asleep hiker
Breathed a sigh of relief

That cows and not killers
Sniffed tents in the forest.

Gerard Woodward.

Having no souls, they have come,
Anyway, beyond their knowing.
Their instincts wholly bloom
And they rise.
The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,
Outdoing, desperately
Outdoing what is required:
The richest wood,
The deepest field.

For some of these, it could not be the place
It is, without blood.
These hunt, as they have done,
But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.
They stalk more silently,
And crouch on the limbs of trees,
And their descent
Upon the bright backs of their prey

May take years
In a sovereign floating of joy.
And those that are hunted
Know this as their life,
Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledge
Of what is in glory above them,
And to feel no fear,
But acceptance, compliance.
Fulfilling themselves without pain

At the cycle’s center,
They tremble, they walk
Under the tree,
They fall, they are torn,
They rise, they walk again.

– James Dickey

I do love pictures and images too though and you can if you wish browse to your right and titter quietly, or perhaps raucously if that’s your style, at the many amusing,  pleasing and disturbing images I have displayed to the world courtesy of the mighty Flickr.

But this blog is all about words.

I provide customized and bespoke poetry for all occasions and events be they happy, sad, indifferent, obligatory or entirely spurious; if you want it I can do it. Just get in touch and let me know.

You know it makes sense.

But quite apart from all that commercial razzamattaz you can I hope find some kind of solace or inspiration in the beautiful and transformative lines from fabulous writers that I post here. They make me buzz and I hope they will you, too.

“Buzz buzz buzz gooes the bee, tweedle deedle dee goes the bird” as Mr. Grole so rightly said.