Beware the Hinkypunks

Petulant winds howl outside the window.

Snow swirls in the night like Will-o-the wisps,

trying to lead the wanderer astray,

to follow their strangely lit faerie lanterns,

swinging wildly in malicious small hands.

The cold is numbing to tired out limbs.

The gullible wanderer presses on,

willing frozen feet to take another step,

just one; then another and another.

“Onward” the Hinkypunks urge; “Onward, friend.”

They cavort with gusto in the snow drifts,

leading their prey from the safety she seeks.

They dance and wave ethereal lanterns.

The vagrant follows them; with soothing words,

they speak of Spring and butterfly kisses.

She almost feels the flutter of the wings,

upon her wet and heavy eyelashes.

They are so heavy; she wants to sleep now.

She shakes her head; she mustn’t give in to it.

Sleep must be avoided at any cost,

but a silvery birch tree invites her,

bids her rest against its papery bark.

The Hinkypunks wholeheartedly agree.

“A bit of rest would do ye good”, they say,

in a sing-song sort of voice that’s whiny,

as the gusting wind; she sighs; she succumbs.

She was found dead the very next morning,

with a tattered rag of a coat for warmth,

a frozen butterfly on an eyelid.

   

Plowshares and Pruning Hooks

When the governments spurn hegemony

and listen to the heart’s cry of mothers,

this world shall turn a deaf ear to war drums

and begin to live as friends and brothers.

When souls shall turn from greed and selfishness

and learn how to see beyond their own need

by reaching out to help the downtrodden,

it could usher in utopia indeed.

Yet until spiritual eyes are open

wars, blood-lust and chaos shall have full reign.

With no way to turn back the evil tide,

all frail mortal attempts shall be in vain.

The answer is not blowing in the wind

as the lyrics of the old folk song say.

The solution to our darkest problems

shall arrive on the dawn of Judgment Day.

Swords shall become plowshares, spears pruning hooks

and earth shall at last breathe a peaceful sigh.

Then shall the once bloodstained battlefields bloom

with flowers and no more soldiers need die.

O what joy heaven shall bestow to earth

when the restoration becomes complete

as wolf and lamb learn to feed together

and dust continues as the serpent’s meat.

Nothing on the earth shall hurt or destroy

for the new world shall be in harmony,

and men their God and Maker shall extol

while all nature performs a symphony.

Angels Among Us

No sense in trying to understand it.

Accept it for what it is nothing more.

We’re not alone here; angels are watching,

sometimes intervening, sometimes not,

but keen-sighted they see all, miss nothing,

every promise made, every vow broken.

They watch taking it in and they marvel

that we are ignorant of their presence.

There is healing in their wings; it’s for us,

but we won’t extend our hand to take it.

There is a comfort under their shadow,

yet we run away from it toward the sun,

where we are burned time after sorry time.

They know about the cross; they have aloe

to soothe wounds physical and spiritual.

Call to them; their mission is to help us.

The fluttering of wings will fill the air. 

Up These Old Stairs

Up these old stairs lived a thousand stories.

Each set of feet that wore out the carpet

or tripped and fell had their own tale to tell.

Some would be best sellers on the market.

Many feet belonged to the poor masses

of immigrants struggling hard to make it

in the so-called promised land, America,

where like kindling promises were split.

The slum lords knew the saddest of cases

for they evicted them without pity

and forthwith; always without a smug smile.

They, too, recalled arriving in the city.

The hordes from farm country managed better.

They knew what it meant to work for long hours

and already understood the language,

if not city ways and rich folks’ power.

Up these old stairs lived a thousand stories,

but one became a self-made millionaire

back when the dollar was worth more than now.

He tore the damned place down; it’s true; I declare.

Old stairs with worn carpets will ever be.

Tired, poor feet with stories will climb up.

Landlords will still evict without mercy,

but will one ever win the victor’s cup?

Just a Tintype?

An old timeworn tintype fills with angst,

as I note the similarities.

The tilt of the head, the same ears,

thin top lip, nice straight nose, and those hands,

hands work hardened yet sometimes gentle,

it all points to something, something true,

but it’s a truth that makes me recoil.

If I could reach back to 1854,

I’d remove those glasses; then I’d know.

It is so like you to hide your eyes,

so perhaps that is proof enough.

I wonder about your woman.

Did she love you as I love him,

or am I her reincarnated?

Did we need to return to try again?

Like him, did you go down to the mines,

deep down in the bowels of the earth?

Were you buried there? It is a fear

that I’ve lived and breathed every day.

Tell me there’s a way to make him quit.

Tell me there’s a better life somewhere.

I’m sorry; I know it is futile,

To yell questions at an old tintype,

But I need answers; I just got the news.

There’s been some trouble at the mine.

The Lucky One

Is it just the luck of the draw,

or does careful calculation,

and skill win this game that I’m in?

If I work at it and persist,

will I reap abundant rewards,

or is this all a waste of time?

Why do I try so hard to win,

when you've stacked the deck against me?

I have a hunch that true victory,

rests on dumb luck and nothing more,

so I call; I’m putting my cards,

on the table, darling; I win.

Your heart is mine; I never lose.

The smile on your face says it all.

Kismet

The intoxicating fragrance

Of Queen Elizabeth roses

Wafts on the gentlest breeze.

It feels like a spicy warm kiss.

Water swirls softly in a fountain

As the sultry afternoon wanes.

The reclining beauty is lost

to a most delightful daydream,

lost in a moment surrounded

by sensuous sounds and scents.

It is intensified by ennui.

Maybe it's brought on by the heat

Or maybe it is the setting,

Or maybe it’s her heart’s yearning,

But what does any of that matter?

What does it signify, if anything?

What can stir her from this reverie?

It takes the faint sound of a footfall.

He is a fantasy fulfilled,

The best of wide awake dreams.

It is kismet on a sweet summer day.

Please, Don't Hit Re-wind

What if what I said was recorded,

each and every word of it?

What if I was forced to listen

as it was played back to me,

uncut, unaltered in any way?

Would I like all the things I heard

Or would I feel sad and embarrassed?

Would what I heard be negative?

Would it manage to pass the smell test

for honesty or would it stink

with rotten lies and half-truths?

How much of what I said was unkind,

mean-spirited and spiteful?

Did I ever say the right words

at the right time to anyone?

How many of my words brought healing?

Did I encourage and lift up others

or did my speech cut to the quick?

 Did I choose to speak with wisdom

or did I waste words on folly?

Will I give account for my words?

Will they come back to haunt me?

Will I be judged as I have judged?

Help me, Lord, to mend my ways,

to walk and speak softly with love.

Grant me the wisdom not to be a bore.

God, please don’t hit the rewind button.

Be merciful; I can’t bear to listen.

Amen.

A Bitter Pill

Your good-bye kiss is a bitter pill.

But I’ll get by, yes I’ll get by.

I promise that I will.

I won’t cry, no I’ll never cry.

Go on your own way in peace, Sweetheart.

Don’t worry your mind about me.

I will make a new start,

And I won’t waste time; you will see.

The time we shared was tender and true,

But sometimes love isn’t enough.

It couldn’t see us through,

When the going became too rough.

Your love will linger on in my soul.

I have no regrets, no not one.

Leave or I’ll lose control.

I know it is over and done.

Give me a smile; gently close the door.

I will brew a cup of black tea.

Don’t come back anymore.

Never fret at all over me.

A Piece of Pie

It’s a bustling place, but you’re all I see.

The finery, the lace is lost on me.

The wait staff is busy, buzzing like bees,

But I don’t care; it’s you alone I see.

These few stolen moments of you and me,

These treasures that go against their decree,

We must hold in our hearts eternally,

For we know that our love can never be.

The tears in your blue eyes would fill the sea.

It rends in two my resolve; my love, let’s flee.

There must be a way for you and for me,

If we dare risk it; you’re all I can see.

Let’s leave this town, dear; please say you’ll agree.

Your sweet face, your smile is enough for me.

Who needs their money? Who needs a dowry?

Why are you silent, my love? This can’t be.

I told you that it’s you alone I see.

Are you leaving? You can’t walk out on me.

I can’t believe it; she’s gone; this can’t be.

Miss, please join me; let’s have pie; it’s on me.

Wings of Faith

As a leaf floating in the wind,

My spirit is free to fly.

No need to fear or to rescind,

Or to ask the reason why.

I’m not as you seem to think,

Not wrapped up in convention.

I am warm as a smile and wink,

The very mother of invention.

I refuse to be bound to earth,

When I am destined for the sky.

There’s nothing of lasting worth,

To live for if you’re afraid to die.

I’ll take the risk and take the leap,

For the wings of faith make me soar,

Above the stormy troubled deep,

To a bright land through heaven’s door.  

Flight of Fancy

I hate to admit it, but something about this brought out the nonsensical side of me. It's been a long, hard day, so maybe I'm overtired.

To soar above on feathered wings,

Gives a birds-eye view on everything,

From soup served up with wooden spoons,

To nuts who fly up to the moon.

The candles bright to light the way,

Turn sacrifice into child’s play,

And then ker- plop into a chair,

As though without a single care.

This world would so much better be,

If everyone was a bird like me,

And wasn’t obsessed with serious things,

But took a flight on fancies wings. 

Coffee Wars

The humans put their coffee in a thermos.

Damn them, double damn them.

That’s just plain mean; they know I love it.

So what if I was a little naughty,

and they caught me licking out a mug full,

a huge mug full of yummy hazelnut,

with two sugars and loads of cream.

That’s my absolute favorite kind.

It’s what the man drinks; the woman has it black.

I’d never touch black; it’s beyond yucky.

Big deal, he left that coffee next to my sofa.

Since they are that dumb, it was fair game.

Now they suddenly pick today to wise up,

and I have to sit and wonder what gives.

When they go to work, I’ll seek revenge.

I’ll cock my leg and pee on his favorite chair.

I wonder what he’ll think about that.

A Day at the Fair

The rain has ruined our day at the fair.

Why must this be, Daddy?

The rides closed down; the funhouse is deserted.

The fortune teller’s crystal ball went black.

It looks the same as the clouds overhead.

The rain is coming in sideways now.

The rain has ruined our day at the fair.

Why must this be, Daddy?

The cotton candy is melting away.

The hot dog buns have all gone soggy.

All the games of chance are over.

Families huddle together.

We walk home

in near silence.

A child’s plaintive voice cries,

“The rain has ruined our day at the fair.

Why must this be, Daddy?

Why must this always be?”

The Cool Cat

Long, leggy, and lean, he’d be one cool cat,

if he’d ditch that tie and a wear a cravat,

but he thinks that he’s incredibly hot,

and has painted his portrait like it or not.

This self-image proves his conceit that is clear.

It’s obvious; you can see it from here.

He doesn’t require a true love in his life,

for he loves himself more than he could any wife.

She looks at the painting in utter distain,

as she realizes what should’ve been plain.

The only female to rub his leg like that

will be a sleek, sexy, calico cat.

Dust Particles

Thank you, Tess, for providing such wonderful prompts!  You make contributing to Mag Pie Tales a lot of fun.

In honor of poetry month, I decided to try a new form I’d never heard of before. It’s called Nonet and consists of nine lines which may or may not rhyme. The first line has nine syllables and the following lines decrease by one until at last you have a final line of one syllable. I learned about this form from an online friend, so I thought I’d pass it on.

dust particles drifting in sunlight

the crux of our relationship

I try to hold on to you

you slip through my fingers

it’s impossible

time to give up

and move on

with life

bye 

The Pieces Won't Fit

 

The pieces of the puzzle don’t fit,

But still they try to put it together,

Making attempt after failed attempt.

It defines their insanity.

They’ve spent years straining at gnats,

to find something salvageable,

or a piece of the past to rescue them,

even a trinket would work,

but, no, there’s nothing left,

not so much as one good memory.

Moonlight on the ocean doesn’t awe them.

It is not only because they are older.

They just don’t care; they never look up.

Each is an isolated island.

His interest now is money; that’s it.

Hers is fading beauty; enough said.

What a shallow sea to swim in.

The puzzle flows out with the tide,

And will never be pieced together.