Monday, December 7, 2015

"The El" a reworking for Myrlindo

Image courtesy of

"The El"

Happy were nights when trees shadowed by moonlight
gave no residence to ghostly visitors

Joyous moments when passing from waking into
Orpheus's gentle embrace
personal pestilence of ghosts
did not
plague me

Those moments were longed for
yearned for
making me an
addict searching
for my daily

Terrible were nights
when my dead perched in skeletal trees
their harpy scorn

These were the nights when
I, me, the el, senor Brujo
would have such long
As to make
parliamentarians weep

My dead and their wants
cry's pitiful
one more moment
of life's extension
could not
would not

Yet they would flock to me
past sins
angry at living souls for living
when they
could not

Only to be sated with stories of the living
and the lived
To be forgotten their true fearful hell

As nights would wind
coil relentlessly forward
they would
eventually drift

Drift towards
some forgotten abattoir
after spending the night wanting, and needing
to hide once more from living truth

I, me, myself,  the el, senor Brujo would hasten stumbling steps
with poems from poets
long mouldering
in their own
graves imbued with magical powers
of verse

sharing those captured moments
illusive rare
sating my dead's desires

Worry lines would ease
as I would read Cervantes
No matter the eve's wearing presence
upon my brow

To be a gallant
about a lady's honor
was a fine

In daily repose
regain strength
for another eve of
relentless bickering

I, me, the el, senor Brujo
resting my soul
Sancho Panza's care

until needed


DS Baker.

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