Pure Clover Honey

Pure Clover Honey

Lucky he covered

Her

Nudity

With pure clover honey, always

Local—

Unconscious to his

Seduction;

It’s sweet and

Stings to be

Her.

ECLOGUE

ECLOGUE - Father to Son: 

Dry them tears boy. This too, is part of working our land.

          His wagging tail has now gone still.

He deserves a proper place, earned a burial;

I think we should lay him near your boyhood girl

On that hill, boy, our two companions will be one—

         Go. Dig him a hole. I’ll wrap him in his blanket. 

Ignorance

“Ignorance”

Ignorance—

Common behavior among us

Intellectuals.

We share, too,

Love for those cute, cuddly ones:

Deer me, puppies n’ kittens for you?

Compare us to the animals:

Sniffing passer-byes, marking visits

With what’s public taboo.

Spray displays are not the human

Way we say hello and good-bye.

That’s just not the way we do things;

We don’t say anything.

See anything?

Stopping to take a picture

Together, with other human beings,

At the rare chance we visit lonely

Concrete cages containing our childhood

Friends. Now life-sized and a little scary,

We continue to pay admission into

Adulthood to see the bears but

Only keep pictures of our children’s visits.

We believe then, the lens will see

Me

You

For who we are, and in

Passing

I will shake your hand

Next time offer to take our picture.

Thanks. I hope

He doesn't steal the camera.

It takes a village with a zoo.

Other enlightened ones,

Too, will not ignore our

Reflections next time

They look at the picture you took,

Not to our face, anyway.

How many ignored us

Today and did we return the favor?

A woe on man’s being to leave out the

Color. We’re cute and cuddly, too.

I Am a Softer Me

I Am a Softer Me

            By: Mark Sutherland

I

am

a candle waxing—

Moon? Not as much.

More shine the closer fire

consumes my melting

head expanding as I shed

us to find

me

in the traces of light

peering from those shadows,

scars of ash, and

your burnt face

up to the demons. Smoking

nostrils flare without snarling

darling, and the sting in

this throat tells me

I need this

solitude.

I’m terrified of melting

I’m done with being hard—

softened wax suits me

even when I know

I’m melting away.