Writers Island ----------- Haunted Hearts

Full moon ushers Hallow’s Eve
Midnight hangs like silent death
A shallow grave now relieved
Exhales spirit through ghastly breath

Rotting patiently in hallow ground
Relished thought of settled scores
You hear the hell-sent frightful sounds
As she claws outside your door

The bullet riddled bride
Has come for better or worse
Enacting vows denied
Just as she’d rehearsed

Murdered by her hopeful groom
Blood now seeping from the floor
Crimson flow surrounds the room
Joining souls forevermore

Calculations quite amiss
She slowly pulls you down
Sealing union with a kiss
Tonight you’ll join her in the ground

Writers Island ------ Strangers

As I saw the post this week for Writer’s Island, I immediately decided that my comforted norm of poetry was not what I wished to do. I began to analyze the term “stranger” and what it means to me.
In the not so distance past I had a serious “priority dysfunction”, and make no mistake, I still struggle with it today although to a much lesser degree. There was a time when I was completely oblivious to how I’d arrived at such a place of self-absorption.
Back then I would have described “stranger” as some odd combination of “stray” and “danger”. Don’t ask me why. I’m still surprised, and to be honest, a little embarrassed, to ‘hear’ that kind of description leaking from my brain. Stray----an outcast; someone segregated from my acquaintance for unjustifiable reasons. Danger---something representing harm. Why would I perceive a person I don’t know as inherently dangerous? Perhaps I’d been programmed by the world to fear difference, change, and intrusive things that I did not allowed into my own tiny world. Ah hah, worldly influence had corrupted my impressionable mind. Yes-------that sounds good, just another victim of circumstances beyond my control; a common diagnosis these days. What a copout; conveniently pinning my personal shortcomings on an unsuspecting world.
The Samaritan in the Bible didn’t need such an excuse. Considering the times, no one would have thought less of him for simply passing by, but he didn’t. He wasn’t too busy to stoop down and help a wounded man, who was not at all part of his culture. At least for a small moment in time, the Samaritan swept aside the differences they may have had to help a brother in need.
Why did I believe that my schedule couldn’t allow for a few extra minutes to help someone stranded by the road, stuck in a snowy ditch, or a lonely elderly neighbor that longed for a tidbit of honest conversation? I can’t answer that fully or I would have never reached that point. I can only tell you about my new perspective.
Now “stranger” represents a friend I have yet to have the opportunity to share a cup of coffee with. Perhaps a culturally distant individual that I can now view, since I’ve broken down the walls I so carefully erected. It could be a long-lost friend whom I no longer recognize because of severed ties.
Looking back on it, the seemingly odd combination of “stray” and “danger” quite accurately describe me lingering in that broken state. I was straying from a lifestyle I knew to be right and in danger of loosing my compassion for fellow human beings.

Writers Island --- Message in a Bottle

Me sea-farin’ soul cries out
For a gallows bird am I
Viewing justice served askew
Through one discerning eye

Once captain of a pirate ship
Seeking fortune in foreign lands
Destined for a watery grave
Delivered by scurvy hands

Instead I’ll swings in arid breeze
Only dreamin’ of Davey Jones
While forsaken land-lovin’ birds
Pluck cured flesh from me bones

Alas, me soul met with dignity
Sailing free the frothy foam
If me glassy vessel runs ashore
Return her swiftly to me home

If you choose to ignore
This captains’ final request
May the curse of skull and crossbones
Ensure your painful death

Writers Island ------ A Brilliant Passing

Lush green leaves
Paint distant hills
With little remorse
Comes frost that kills
Resisting death
Hue by hue,
Brilliant moments
Remain but few
Undertakers, disguised as gusty breeze
Reveal again the barren trees

Writer's Island --- Corners

From cobweb covered corners
Whispering voices speak my name
Reminding derelict owner
They still languish there in chain
Exploring hollow recess
In the creases of my mind
Quietly shuttled to the corner
Replaced by those sublime
Misshapen and distorted
Fangs and claws sharp and willing
I imagine are these beasts
Bent on senseless killing

I find no gnarled creatures
Lurking in the crease
Merely ragged thoughts’ last gasp
Bemoaning their release
Resisting perfect mold
Their only petty crime
Perhaps conforming nicely
In another place and time
As for future days
I’ll gladly advocate
For even rogue ideas
Deserve a better fate