Road to Ruin
Worn down by achievement, she tried ruin.
Are you charmed or horrified by ruin?
Art eats anything. He recorded his
best songs about his slide into ruin.
California’s on fire. Witches burn
herbs, chant prayers for rain. Outside, ruin’s
orange tongue filling the sky. What mercy
or act of fate can override ruin?
Dead dove, don’t eat means the tags are true. Hurt,
no comfort. Crack-fic. Homicide. Ruin.
Suspect the meek, the saint, the buttoned up.
Jekyll learned when he unleashed Hyde – ruin
comes from what we cage. Trashing hotel rooms,
the rock star erred on the side of ruin.
Maggots in the kitchen. That man in the
White House. On the news – genocide, ruin.
In the race to hell, Greed whipping Scruples
overtakes Missed Chances astride Ruin.
Dear God, don’t give me my lover’s fragile
heart, its irregular beat. I’d ruin
anything so tender. The broke, disgraced
nobleman’s tailored suits belied ruin.
My friend would kill to un-take his son for
a sea swim. To undo riptide, ruin.
Scurrying rats mean a hole in the boat.
Lust precedes disappointment. Pride, ruin.
Stone’s outgrown squalor’s allure, now aims for
Daughter of Promise, not Bride of Ruin.
Well-Lit
The groom donned cowboy boots, the bride wore light.
Spring blares its edict – The world needs more light.
Beauty’s a cage women fight to stay in.
The cat bats a mouse. Noon sun’s a bore, light,
like virtue, tiresome in its brightness.
Even Lucifer soured on splendor, light.
The first crimson leaves splotch lawns. Mourners rise
to guide beloved souls toward savior, light.
I fell arse over tits for a British
drummer, his leather pants, gray pallor. Light
changed to song by his sticks. Sex is debt both
bodies build, then pay. Victim/captor, light-
drenched tangled limbs. There are places folks don’t
come back from, acts that close the door to light.
He tried to walk his talk but found the path
too steep. We’re not all wired for joy or light.
Shoots of wild onion. My hands take on
their tang when I unearth the bulbs. Poor light-
filled, unwanted things, consigned to compost.
Beneath the earth, a reservoir of light.
Strong gusts slam metal chimes into windows.
The moon silvers the pond with donor light.
No protection from bullets in temples
or mosques. Maybe God’s just metaphor, light
making the bush blaze. Turner brought prayer
to canvas, urged viewers to explore light.
Human nature to divide “us” from “them.”
Like solar panels, do angels store light?
Too easy, Stone, to despair in the dark.
Write swing-state postcards, work to restore light.