jfk poem

jfk was shot people thought about it a lot they came to no conclusion was it all a mass delusion? a billion narratives sprung from every brain and tongue a trillion songs were sung and have only just begun in eternity oswald waits behind the window of fate in eternity jfk waves to a trillion spellbound slaves in eternity jackie's smile lights up the universe in style in eternity lbj straightens his tie and looks away in his office j edgar hoover the timeless prime mover stamps "secret" on a file whistling all the while in the shadow ruby lurks ready for fate's appointed work and the ghost of marilyn smiling floats above a windswept swirl of shredded notes in the dark forest of zapruder a quadrillion lonely brooders watch the endless loop of film which grows brighter and never dims the magic bullet spins washing away the sins of all who came before and all who stand upon the shore of the new world brought to birth crying out for all their worth my story is the true one if you don't like it, i've got a new one by probabilities reckoned a new narrative every millisecond a story for every taste get yours before it's too late a rainbow of endless stories in their proliferating glories for a quintillion happy minions entitled to their opinions

the last romantic

harold smith, a romantic soul had a desperate resolute goal he pined for the lady emmeline and dreamed to ask, "wilt thou be mine?" fortune favored harold not and brushed him aside without a thought the stars looked down on him unseeing and cared not for his inner being his fellow humans likewise cared not a whit how harold fared in pursuit of such romance as might be granted him by chance the city's drawing rooms are lit by flashing eyes and sparkling wit amorous hints and flashing glances in which all manner of promise dances but outside on the avenue are those for whom the wind blows through sad fantasies and ragged clothes no love song, but the croak of crows for such as harold, in the mist the tale has no redeeming twist no jolly songs around the hearth no escape from this abandoned earth the moon looks down on her rough sibling no teardrop from her eye is dribbling her face is smooth, her smile is cold at every story ever told his humble plaint was never posed the book on harold now is closed owls and bats look down askance at dreaming love's last graveyard dance

cherry

under a blue familiar sky polly baked a cherry pie the farmhands fell down in a coma overcome by its aroma through the fields the effluvia spread the hands fell down as if struck dead and through the corn rows, stern as sin john the baptist came again john, cried polly, half in fright why are you here before midnight? the end approaches, john replied i am just along for the ride dark clouds appeared like flying banners but polly did not forget her manners she kept her wits as she was able and asked john to sit at the table in a calm collected state she put some pie upon a plate and poured a glass of orange juice for catastrophe was no excuse john tentatively took a sip outside in the apocalypse the sky had turned to darkest night and demons howled in rare delight as prophesied in ancient screed the fearful four on flaming steeds filled the horizon from side to side the gates of hell were opened wide from duty polly did not swerve she thought a cup of tea might serve before the world was finally gone polly put the kettle on but before the water she could pour the pale rider came through the door no time for lengthy lamentations or exculpatory explanations "john, it was so nice knowing you" "polly, i really liked you too" then death, with a knowing glance so sly finished off the cherry pie