Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 57
Table of

HAITCH/consider this

"Don't be afraid of my friends, they're poets"

tilting her head she smiled�

then fell down the stairs

I opened the door and we walked out together

into the cold shadows which New Yorkers

imitate so well

They were juggling colorful lead ballons

on the subway that Sunday morning

because Thomas Pynchon was wearing

high heels and a vermillion wig

Crossing the Road old men

kept ressurecting from the asphalt;

as the wind blew onlookers eyeballs

in front of my boots

I stepped carefully across Heaven

then stood wathching the Battle

The sound and clatter of war can be indistinct

and is often ambiguous

I ordered my leftenant

to raise a pink banner in the wind

as we began to kill in earnest

I sat upon the grassy mound rolling

dice for the souls of my enemies

Satan slipped into the abyss

the train stopped

letting people out

I stood upon the mound of Death

and ordered my leftenant

to remove a silver horse from my cup

�then entered the fray�

that sunny morning

He put the horse back in the wooden box

our grandmothers had left

Walking down the slope I heard

no sound

Stepping upon the field I found

no enemies

the banner blew lazily in the soft,

warm breeze of the Sun rising

over the trees

I knelt on one knee

and held him bleeding in my arms, tightly

his blood stanched between the fingers

of my hard grasp

There was a quiet smile upon his lips

when he held his eyes gently closed

then breathed gratitude

as a moist crimson rose

 pale upon his milk dew cheeks.

(copy written January 27th thru June 4th 2008)
  Girôn d'Agate __

I was sitting in my den listening to the sound of logs crackling in the hearth, on occasion I lit my pipe and read "La Mordida" the hearthstone watched me closely imploring calm; a plea from abroad the wind in winter's treetops played its usual tympanum in my ear and a sound drew near a sound of a low roar, steady rising without alarm I moved toward the louvred windows to draw the blind, when lightning scorched the pine of my heart and split it apart by a meadow fair I stepped to the hammer, and saw crickets playing checkers I stepped one-half step back and the fire rose around me consuming all dross filling my soul with light I was happy to know why the bush was not consumed by the flame
  Girôn d'Agate __

it's funny how the leaves fall dandelions blow clouds move while shadows flee their Maker and words so delicately carved in stone turn to dust

  Girôn d'Agate __