Blackbird

There is a baby
blackbird
chirping
just
outside my
bedroom window

It is early
Sunday morning

thin grey light
illuminates
my white curtains

Only The Spaniel
and I are awake
and the baby bird
singing
for breakfast

A hush
settles
over everything
like dust

There is a
quiet
emptiness
about
every
Sunday morning

Sunday Morning Coming Down

which is a song
about hangovers
about living fast
and hard

These days
I’m hungover
on Life
on Death
on the Unknowable

while the quiet
seeps into my heart
filling my chest

and with it
a kind of peace

I wasn’t expecting that

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You Will Never Forget

Her grandfather’s
old fountain pen
almost
touched
the paper
before
her grip
relaxed
letting it
tumble
out of
her hand
roll across the desk
and onto the floor

The tiniest
of sobs
escaped her lips
her gaze
captured
by her garden
black with night
framed by
whimsical
looking
French doors

If she stared
long enough
let her eyes
go out of focus
just a little
she could
almost see
him there

hear his voice
whispers
against her ear
soft laughter
making her smile
just a little

There are places
experiences
people
you will
never forget

She let
the cold
dark
night
slide
into
her bones
just a little

Losing herself
just a little

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Day 3 of 30 poems in 30 days for Na/GloPoWriMe

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Dreaming of New Orleans, Vampires and Other Ghosts

I used to walk
down dark streets
where vampire ghosts
would congregate

just out of of sight
a step or two
away from murky
yellow street lamps

Their presence would leave
a kind of rich, dark
perfume in the air

My heart would beat
just a little bit faster
as I walked by
fingers crossed
against disaster

Until I looked up
into your dark eyes
slowly watching you
slowly watch me

Your spell was always
so much greater
than the rich, dark perfume
of congregating vampire ghosts

You’re gone now

But some nights
a yellow street lamp
will make my breath catch
my eyes close

and I can feel your hand
on my throat
Your breath
in my ear

The prelude
to my destruction

Those hellish, fiery,
passionate
divine moments
before my resurrection

I was remembering living in the French Quarter. I used to work the late shift at a book store. My shift ended at midnight. I would walk down Decatur to Esplanade where my boyfriend managed a bar called “Checkpoint Charlie’s.” A snifter of Gran Marnier was always waiting for me. More than once I thought I sensed a dark, seductive, alien presence. I’ve been back there so many times since then. I think he’s still waiting for me.

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