works of a poetic nature.

cursive

	hunting down the hunters
	nearly caught myself-
	they were racing- vicious wild
	 whistling to each other
	     short
             sharp
           air goes and goes past
         iridescent droplets of rain
    I didn't know.
    That the tip of the tail
      you catch in your teeth
      and give the strongest bite
    PAIN being your purpose
       was
       your
       own

piety

   I found an austere comfort
      Where I thought there should be none:
   It jumped at my reflection
         in the mirror-
         in the Sun-
   The bones so ancient and so new
      Recited buried lines
   The flesh, as all flesh, hurried past
         yet dwelt - in full - its time--
   And all spun past and lingered still
      And fought battles
	         and declined
      To drink to any second-place
         or be unfit for rhyme.

incomplete

laying back amidst the patterns
tracing the ribs and the flanks and the spine
  -and the weight is said to be a burden-
and sits like death on my chest
but is pleasant to bear and the bearing is mine.

and those little unsuitable daggers of thought
attempt to deploy:
  wriggle- and struggle- and squirm angrily--
  hissing predictably predictable predictions
and are defeated;
    by the simple path of a hand
    across my damp and startled back.

chilled

slept
and wrecked
and rudderless

and sudden the clarity and the breezes, brazen

and you in the moment--
and me

and a breath that clears our lungs to depths
assuming the lotus position

--wouldn't it be nice if we were older, then we
  wouldn't have to wait so long--

the opening of time
in the moment of truth.

epiphany! the old man said. understanding the way in which
the words compel the action
and the thoughts compel my pulse.

All works copyright 1996 Lauren E. Mahon (leek@7thsign.com)

Please, mail me and let me know what you think of these. Or of anything. Hell, tell me about your childhood for all I care.