Anachronism

In our nuclear age 

I'm powered by steam;

I will not fly, I 

Will not dream. 

I'd still burn wood 

If only I could 

But I have been told 

My smoke makes the 

Little ones choke,

That they'd rather toke 

When they take 

To those skies where

They know I will not go.…

In this nuclear age

I'm no longer a cleric, but 

Rather more a queer relic, 

Vaguely recalled 

By the so-called well

Schooled, 

But by the vast masses

More honestly 

Considered a fool. 

Still, mayhap it's good 

That I no longer burn 

Wood, for where could 

My chimney's smoke go?

Where'd blow the 

Breeze and who'd care?

Since the nuclear 

Fallout killed off the trees 

And poisoned the 

Remains of the air.…

At Last, The Task

The sun in rising,

Decants a destiny down, 

Splashing redly, 

Replete with meaning. A

Full-bodied fate fills

My ill-chosen flask; some last

Splashes and then, o'erfilled,

Leaves my cuff hanging limp,

Leaking, staining 

Crimson the wrist

And the flask-filled hand. 

So, anointed into the 

Weird now appointed me,

A flash of the past pierces,

A gash not mine 

Appears and a sight

Opaque to eyes reminds. 

Time folds His fingers 

'Tween mine in that 

Special way so 

That, overlaid, we share

The impaling nail

And the vision is,

Once emptied, whisked

Away but, again, I 

Must stay.

Eleven

What are you?

Are you as essential 

As the pencil is 

To paper? 

As the lunar light 

Is to raven wingèd

Night?

As, later in the coming 

Morn, the dawn 

Once more will break, and 

When broken, there won't 

Be no light no more. So 

Darling, please, be 

My very own heroin: pick

Out a vein and shoot 

Your life therein.

Let me watch and, as 

I grow stronger,

You'll wither, linger, die

In time no thicker 

Than my little finger.

Once you swore you'd  

Be my friend until 

The very end of ends, 'till,

Though I'd've lost my all, still 

You'd cling, giving no heed 

To how feeble were my

Shredded leavings.

Now, and as Desolation is

My witness, I see

You strive to swim away.

Well, my, my, my, my dear,

Let me toss you some 

Comfort: this lifesaver, custom

Made of lead. It strikes me 

As the perfect payment for 

So casual a betrayal,

A phoney kiss so far 

Off the mark

That even Judas, in 

His well-earned heated pit,

Can't help but bray with 

Raucous laughter,

Though he thrash in

Agony eternal forever after.

So, grasp now my gift, my

Dearest one, drown deep and 

Fast, for there's but a finite

Limit to how long I 

Can or canst keep my 

Righteous vengeance 

In restraint. God may, in

Deed, forgive but yet

From true forgetfulness 

We both refrain.