Electricity to a Jack-o-Lantern

Electricity to a Jack-o-Lantern

I have a silver spoon

and it lays upon the grass;

I’ve covered it with pumpkin guts,

and now it looks of brass.


The gourd that I have hollowed

has become a mild cadaver:

be it a pumpkin or a corpse,

now one might say the latter.


The skin that once was fresh

now has seen a shining blade,

and pictures make a tattooed mask

bearing faces of dismay.


But the body will not see

itself inside a coff’n of wicker;

no, no, inside its shell tonight

will rest a dancing flicker.


The candle that I light

up with a match and set within

the body of the deadened gourd,

protected from the wind,


will illuminate the shapes

that I have carved upon the side,

and passers-by will marvel

at the pumpkin I made die.




My name is scrawled in blue,

but it is written in pink.

The divots are small creases in the entirety of my name,

they are large in the entirety of me.

Most of the time, I am myself,

but sometimes I must be my name.

Because there is a small box to check,

it is checked, if for no sake it would seem than for itself.

On every form it’s there,

especially the applications, even the imaginary ones.

For university, employment, friendship, expectations, scenarios,

it is a single letter that denotes me

but it isn’t even a letter found in my name,

the name of my sister,

my grandmother,

my great-grandmother,

any of the surnames.

I am part of the entire congregation,

one I gladly take.

So my name may be scratched in blue

but it is spoken with surprise

in pink.

Ballad of the Bones

Ballad of the Bones

The downy snow and bitter swirling wind

this night in unison on cold ground cast

most eerie shadows; lifelessness rescinds

itself as yonder clocks mark midnight past.

The moonlight through the wispy balding oak

casts shimm’ring shadows round the whole estate.

Headstones weather’d seem this to invoke:

it is the time when spirits emulate.

They rise out from the solid frozen soil

and flex the joints which see no light of day;

they creep and patter through this yard, no toil

befalls them in their state of gross decay.

The skeletons and corpses freshly slain

do make a merry meet, for lack of breath;

they dance right through the chilly winter rain–

Lo! one to see them would not think of death.

For ’tis the night Viduus’ violin

(He who separates the spirit from decay)

will play a tune heard only here within

the graveyard trance, the dawn ’fore All Saints Day.

They nod their bony skulls and smile with teeth,

and make arrays one’d think were stranger yet

if the pasquinade were breathing, not deceased;

Still, nonetheless it’d make the living fret.

Then, at the strike of one upon the clock,

the gathering will cease as if it weren’t;

and for another year the corpses flock

within their coffins deep inside the earth.

But they rose and danced the lifeless steps of death

And their lovely, ’cabre, pallid bones impress.

If It Pleaseth

If It Pleaseth


I have held a pen almost every day,

why do I never finish?

Scream! well.

I have held a pen every day,

I have brought the papers, the surface, a notebook anywhere;

but it’s all there, in my head.

(why is it still there? why is it never on paper?)

Scream. well.

I am holding a pen every day,

the new idea from a dream, from anything,

a spoonful of words

but no one will ever know. I’m running out of time

scream; well.

I won’t forget it, I can’t if I wanted to, I don’t.

but neither will they.

they never knew, they don’t live in my ideas, in my mental computer files

I keep running out of breath to say it one last time

*c o n t i n u o u s   s c r e a m*

I just need more time, just need to figure it out, just need a little more air

but I can’t scream loud enough anymore

So If It Pleaseth the powers that be, please, let this work for me.


AABBA 8-8-5-5-8. It’s so easy to  make a bad one, and not that much harder to make an alright one. These come complete with a scenic view of Limerick, Ireland for simultaneous enjoyment.


The blandness of something we spake

is truly a hardness to make.

It comes and it goes,

like a river it flows,

and time is sweet something to take.


A Musical Man

There once was a man who played cello.

Some pieces were loud, some were mellow.

He’s called Yo Yo Ma,

he plays without flaw,

how good is that musical fellow!


The Old Lady

There once was a very old lady

who travelled Bermuda to Haiti.

But it got oh so hot

that she up and forgot

that her goal was to find someplace shady.



The Girl from Peru

There once was a girl from Peru

who everyday bought something new:

bracelets and charms

decorated her arms,

and non-bejewelled spaces were few.


The Geographer

There once was a scholarly man

who studied the globe, from Japan.

But when asked on a map

to find something, that chap

had not any clue of the land.


People get rings like those of a tree (but ours are under our eyes).

Part of a larger work, I Used to be a Shark. Small musings.

People get rings like those of a tree (but ours are under our eyes).

Most of the times I begin something, it is with a spurt of creativity, and I want to write. It isn’t always so, such as now; but I do feel that, seeing as finding self-worth from marked progress would be a nay-sayer to the hopeful actuality, I cannot delay. People are tired. I am among them, and I sympathize; I would even if I wasn’t among them: how could someone with the wiles of today rest peacefully at the hope of tomorrow, when tomorrow is clad the same as today?

If I did not have to think, I would say that sometimes I might be happier. Still, for the times when thinking is the thing to do, the small solace it brings is worth that price… Which might be worth more? well— that is the question to answer.

A very wordy explanation might be due, but pray it might not be written where a shorter one would suffice. For my purposes, no answer would suffice. Now I am just rambling… Intelligence is ironic that it might be put to use in silence but seldom aloud. It is always said to be a shared thing, and for what it’s worth as a stupid thing, that’s odd. My discourse of course isn’t what makes something intelligent, but why we continue to slave as a collective people in this age. We are tired, and I, here among the “we,” show sympathy. I would even if I wasn’t among the “we.”

I began to think that, had not someone at some point sat down and thought of why he had decided to do what he just did, what was his reason for moving at all, much less to think about thinking of a reason, we would all arrive very differently to a conclusion of the purpose of life. I do not mean to say that people tire of purpose, regardless of what that purpose may be. I do say that they tire of the constant quest to maintain that purpose. Put simply, those things we must do that aren’t what we really are here to do, but are necessary to able to keep doing our purpose. A mild difference. I know. But from mild to miles between. Our trouble is with this maintenance. The space in between doing what matters that actually kind of does matter.

Absolutely we should not set ablaze a people as a forest. But if a tree, when cut open, displays a charred ring— I mean to say a fire that it survived in its youth or really at any point— and has grown, we might know that the non-thinkers can get through the toughest of times.

Without meaning to.

It’s the thinkers that have the trouble greatest of all.


Inspired after reading Elie Wiesel’s Night. The worst part of the story is that it’s true.



There is nothing in the ghettos, nor anything in their eyes,

The eyes that only witnessed silent nights of cruel demise.

The snow is not as freezing as the fateful captor’s heart.

Our captors go by many names like soldier, death, and dark.

That silence is the silence of the dead and the unseen,

There is nothing but the memories to know where we have been.

A man needs not a name to help, to care, to save a life,

Or for him to be a hero in attempt to stop the strife.

We helped each other through the cold to stand where we would not

So that if we were beaten, we’d have those for whom we’d fought.

But very few have courage to stand up and act and speak,

Most melt into the shadows, just afraid of being beat.

The nameless, they can help us, or they can be our fate–

The difference is simple: do they show love or only hate?

These times of pain were bearable with grace of human acts:

Families might together stay by changing certain facts.

As if those things had mattered, like one’s job or height or age,

No, regardless of these things, we could not escape death’s rage.

They gave us bread and soup that made our feeble stomachs sting,

And we knew the sounds of liberty would for us never ring.

The nameless, they can help us, or they can be our fate;

The difference is simple: do they show love or only hate?

Deep down we know the answer, that evil conquered good,

And only by remembering can things be as they should.

To be saved or to be slain,

Dependent on people without a name…