Two poems from the crypt…

A bizarrely improbable coincidence

A coincidence ago,
She who once held the iron justice gavel,
The sea sexton clapped in a diver’s bell
And a waxed contemplating skull
(Spoke not a word in three lean months),
Swapped all in a relic scrapping
For a road east to Prague, a fishing rod,
And water on a frog- exchanged not a word,
As her twin gab banged a blind exchange,

Now merrily on her way, compassed, puffing her
Excess pounds, to a Czech republic by a dissected
Fishery water (with reel and bait), with a
Riveting-tongued amphibian; all in dusted conjured
Footprinted soil; she, chiming the time with a gavel,
Sextoned salty directions (fogged breathing), and
Skeletal candle, spindled laterally with enough
Currency for both; their destination near with the
Proper passports and bus terminal lockers.

Both arrived like an exodus from a book chapter,
Who then is she? The den of her shape seemed
Remarkable; dressed like a folded garden (the other
Intricately cultivated); both pleasing to the eye of
The beholder. Image of images, stepping forth
Through the timebell, the bronze clapper in motion-
An unnatural parallel. The world stood still in this
Thimble of coincidences- bizarrely improbable,
Both ghosts up from the conjured earth soil.

A bizarrely improbable coincidence

The wayside bride of the empty house

Under a conceiving moon, on the dry
Grass plain,
There this night she sat on the
Swing board
Where barren tree longed for death in a
Cemetery of leaves,
She labored in love, many dark hours,
Pleaded for
The seed to grow inside her, yearned for
The wisp of a breath,
Yearned for a child in the milking moonlight;
Time by,
Dust on her flesh, shy with the rough riding
Boy that died there

Who once in a summer loved her, twined in
The roasting sun,
Clung to each other, thrashed in the bushes,
Rippling soft
Like a white lake; white gown bride in the
Church house,
Wooed flow of words, promises, soon scurrying
In the dowse
Of betrayal, he, quick in another love,
Bounced in a bed
But nothing bore, no mouthing veined;
He was a simple Jack
With a boulder of affairs, he kissed the
Mouths of dust

With his mole snout blunt. Man of my
Flesh, know now
Your vice and the scythe-eyed raver,
The bridal blade.
Fear not the flat, scathing blood, fear
Not the pine box screws,
Socket and grave, the grassy earth;
Ghost with your ghost,
Stroke your bones on mine, look into
My spittled eyes,
Feel the desolate child dark of the
Wombed coffin;
Feel not the holy flood of my desires,
My stuffed lung crying for love.

The wayside bride of the empty house

43 comments on “Two poems from the crypt…

  1. murisopsis says:

    So dark they press on my heart.

  2. Dark and fantastic poems.
    Thank you, Lance.

  3. Now you have my thinking about Tales from the Crypt… great poems though

  4. Very thought provoking of who or what was traveling to Czech. The boy who had a revengeful death from one too many a love.

  5. With the title “Two poems from the crypt,” how could I resist reading? I particularly liked the second one.

  6. That cry for love speaks from the grave, Lance.

  7. Silent Hour says:

    Captivating darkness.

  8. rabirius says:

    Both are really fantastic, Lance. You are a master of words.

  9. Fall Fraust says:

    Velvety smooth, grotesquely gorgeous. The second one was like a lovely maze in which I got lost.

  10. Although they are in a dark space, as always they are written with excellent description. Thank you Lance!

  11. francisashis says:

    Thanks a lot sir for the mind-boggling poem.πŸŒΉπŸ‘

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