I-II

I.

It seemed a good idea inside my head
to vent a bit of spleen upon the page.
At forty-two years old I’m halfway dead,
beyond my youthful lust and youthful rage.

The years indeed perform their dreadful dance
and repetition weighs upon the soul.
You find yourself performing in a trance
while seeking out a salve to make you whole.

I’ve never had the discipline to paint.
My music playing days are far behind.
Perhaps a poem, even if it ain’t
as pretty on the page as in my mind.

A daily sonnet, rough-hewn, brash, and bad
might be the thing to keep from going mad.


II.

I’ve always had a knack for paranormal
since long before such things were de rigueur,
and though my schooling here is far from formal
experience made me a raconteur.

The town I live in now, they say, is haunted.
The ghosts are bric-à-brac all down the block.
Modernity has not these demons daunted
and people tell such stories in their shock:

The housewives who are hunted by the hag;
Commuters seeing faeries cross the street;
And with the cloven hoofbeats of a stag
one hears upon his roof the devil’s feet.

They come confessing terrors to their priest
of ev’ry spirit, phantasm, and beast.