Guest Poems

Intrusion

The house is drifting into moon’s dim light.
The television’s off and no lamps glow.
I’m listening to sounds that stir the night.

The carriage clock ticks quietly, there’s a slight
persistent shush where rustling breezes blow.
The house is drifting into moon’s dim light.

A creak from cooling radiators might
drown out the scurry of a mouse – but no,
I’m listening to sounds that stir the night,

and there’s some movement, footsteps on a flight
of stairs that should be empty – stealthy, slow.
The house is drifting into moon’s dim light,

but I am wide awake. With doors shut tight
and windows locked, I should be safe, I know.
I’m listening to sounds that stir the night,

and in the blackness someone’s there. The fright
chokes down my scream as fear and panic grow.
The house is drifting into moon’s dim light.
I’m terrified by sounds that stir the night.

Sack and Sugar

Let us imagine Falstaff as a cake.

He sits there, a great cherry-in-a-chair,
and lets us watch him, studying out
his layers. Fruitcake, sure, in all
its connotations, thumb-pressed through
with candied peel or currants
concealed like other people would
have tender points held close to heart.

But cream, as well, a-lather
and thwarting easy view, being, as it is, old
in the cracked corners of large mouths
held open long from laughing
distracting from the eyes and their perception.
And after that the plain sponge of an honest man.
And then the marzipan: its own, acquired, taste
of jokes and tricks and playing dead
and bankrupting our trusting friends
by offering them icing: patterned, sweet.

Then after all the looking, guess
its weight, its measure. Get it right:
and choose exactly where to stick the knife.