SUNDAY AFTERNOONS IN APRIL

Sunday Afternoons In April 

The Sunday paper is piled high in little individual 

Tents of newsprint as I discard each section when 

I am done 

Terrible news here, Society there, exotic 

Travels, food, awful movies and bank robberies 

Get Fuzzy comic strip over there but usually 

A jagged hole where I have torn it out to put on 

My refrigerator cause I love Bucky Kat so 

Even when he's mean to Satchel (especially when 

He's mean to Satchel) but that dumb dog is so 

Sweet he makes me cry sometimes.

The ice in my iced tea is melting and watering 

Down the caffeine but I love to watch the beads 

Of moisture forming on the outside of my glass 

Like tears 

On the stereo plays Amos Lee or Leonard Cohen 

P.O. D. or Vivaldi, whatever my mood 

And over there in the corner waits the computer 

The screen tuned in to Poet's Dream or 

ProphecyintheNews or homestarrunner dot com 

All sites populated by strange and wonderful 

Beings that I have never met but somehow love 

Outside, I hear the birds and the odd passing car 

Or truck and I run outside to look at all the 

Greenery and inhale the fragrance of roses and 

Honeysuckle that surrounds me like the breath of 

Heaven.

The cats look at me and yawn and go "Oh, it's only 

you!" and go back to sleep in their little cat beds 

And I envy them that they have each other and 

Don't need me, except for food and y'know.....litter. 

I wish I had somebody. It's so quiet here on 

Sundays. So peaceful. But so lonely. And the music 

And the Forums only magnify that fact 

I sigh and write a poem. Maybe eight or nine

Maybe none. I write because I need to and I 

Don't because there's nothing left to say.

Villanelle For Our Time Leonard reads in his 

Rough and tender poet's voice and my heart aches 

In time with his as I lift a rose's petal to caress 

My face, momentarily distracted from the world in 

Which I live with it's discarded bad news and 

Melting ice 

Poets should never live alone, I think and reach to 

Pick the papers off the floor. It makes us crazy. 

It makes us write incomprehensible sentences that 

Do not rhyme and will never be understood 

But such is life in April with it's storms and flowers 

And Sunday afternoons so quiet with bird song 

Such is life and yet, I dare to dream 

And wish......for more. 

©by Voo

April 23, 2006 

HORROR STORY

Ghostly Theater soundtrack

 Horror Story

The fog rolled in over the ocean

Quiet, white, on little cat feet

Thick as smoke and menacing

In a steel butterfly kind of way.

It was just in time to meet the storm

Rolling in from an alternate direction

Dark and black and noisy

Like a marching band from hell.

All night the wind had howled

Outside my shuttered window

Tree branches with gnarled gray fingers

Had scratched the roof and tapped on the panes.

I was in the house alone

Had been for thirteen days

Thirteen days of terror gnawing at my insides

Terror, which had no voice except a scream.

"You can never leave here." they had told me

"Once you walk through that door

You're here forever."

And to my everlasting despair, I found that to be true.

Cellars are terrible places

Dead things live there

Rotting things and ancient things

That smell of decay and hopelessness.

I wish I hadn't gone there

I wish I had stayed in the attic with the bats

And the vampires and the ghosts that walked

And moaned all night.

But I had to find a way out

I had tried every door, every barred window

Every keyhole, nook and cranny

The cellar was the last place to look for freedom.

I watched that fog roll in

Through the leaded glass at the top of the stairs

Across the shore, across the cliff, across the lawn

Drawing closer and taking on the form of a man.

I closed my eyes and prayed

"This is just a dream." I said and my voice echoed

Down the dark corridors and off the awful paintings

That hung on every wall like spies in a castle.

Thunder roared and lightning struck

And just for a moment I could see clearly

As I stood looking down the endless staircase

And looking back at me were terrible things with red, red eyes.

Behind me, I heard a footstep

And off I flew down those uncounted steps in the darkness

Down to rooms full of dusty furniture and unlit candles

Fear driving me relentlessly, looking for I knew not what.

Doors, doors, so many doors

They seemed to open of their own accord

Inviting me into the heart of the house

But none that I could see, that led away.

Rustling noises like mice running

And yet not like mice filled my screaming ears

Invisible arms brushed against mine

And I pushed them away and fell and ran and fell and ran.

"Down here." I heard distinctly

And I gasped and ran in the direction of the voice

The outline of a dark, dark door illuminated in a flash

Then it flew open and something drew me down.

Down squeaky, rotting steps

With breath as cold as ice and air as foul

As the devil's soul, the cellar waited for me

And I was much too shattered to resist.

"Who's there?" I cried, hopeful

"Can you tell me how to get out of here?"

And before I had stepped on the last broken step

The door behind me slammed shut and I heard a lock click.

Then something whispered

And something slithered

And something touched my face

And I.....................................

Ghostly Theater remix

©by Voo

Oct 24, 07

midnight