The Rival*
riding
his horse each night
through the hollow shadows—
on the pommel his severed head
grinning…
turned back
by the river,
each night he rides again—
the ancient Hessian can not rest
his bones…
old Brom
still smiles each night,
clasping Katrina's hand
tightly in a rowdy embrace
and laughs…
again,
and yet again,
the townsmen tell their tales
of smashed pumpkins and tattered hats
trampled…
Dreary and
Cold...**
…the tap,
tap, tapping sound
on every window pane—
in the wind autumn leaves rasping
and wet…
I Am***
I am
in a Book of Truth
written by many hands;
I am often misunderstood
and maimed.
Wisdom
is my forte—
truths of ages, my goal—
look deep in the bowels of the earth
for me.
See me
in the far skies—
day or night I am there
beyond all the known boundaries
of time.
Without
limit and scope—
without color or size—
in shape both tiny and immense
am I.
My names
are faint phantoms
representing my parts;
some see me everywhere, others
are blind.
