Not a member?     Existing members login below:


I always held my breath as I entered,
frightened to inhale that distinctive scent.
The smell of decay and pending death.
The sweet cloying fragrance of finality.
Her eyes always mirrored my fear
but she forgave me.
What did I know, young as I was?
And perhaps in forgiving me, she forgave herself.
Her arthritic hands would flutter,
and her toothless smile light up her face.
The sun catch her pink scalp
through the thinning white hair.
A frail old woman, some might think.
Bedridden for thirty years,
the Queen's telegram proudly framed
above her bed.
Her body lay shrunken and wrinkled.
An ancient tree, fallen in a storm.
Myriad tiny blue veins, the rings of years,
showing through the fine, translucent skin.
A small frail form, not afraid of death,
encased in a deep feather bed.
A small frail form, not afraid of life,
encasing a firm, sharp wit.
- as I remember her -
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Disturbed by that exiling leer,
The sheep wait quietly, talking low,
Triangulated by their fear.
Retribution cased in lead,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
Creating sickly, fetid smells,
That’s whirl and cling thro' night and day.
As from a building, half destroyed,
A doctor drops, on growing pile,
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
A small child's leg, a father's smile.
Dislodged, a hand slides slowly down,
Caressing gently on the way,
The now dead heir, a once loved son,
In countries where the mad-dogs play.
In countries where the mad-dogs play,
As bombs rain down, black mindless flies,
The unwashed corpses rot away,
Beneath the calm but leaden skies.
Great tides of people swirl in fear,