Groping for a Ghost

Puffs of thistledown
floating in the air.

Lovely lady
dark blue plums
and the tracery of lace.

‘Toot’ says a trumpet
to the cry of a clarinet.

Tinkling piano notes
flowing
lilting, rippling, fleeting
fleeing.

Bows, strings and violins.

Echoes of yesterday
fading into grey.

Glimpses of Gold

Patterns of neglect
reside at intersections
with doubts
and relics of disrespect.

Wounded victims
hide
behind barricades
of anxiety and mistrust.

Gaps for sorrows
coincide with thoughts
trembling
like piano notes.

The ugly side of paradise
immortal, immoral
eludes the glimmer
of an impassive sun.

Oases defined
by the purity of light
shimmer
somewhere outside the mind.

The Execution of Ted Bundy

Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted’s emotionally dead
but terrified head.

A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy’s ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.

No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.

Bundy’s body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.

The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
and is revealed
appropriately
as a beautiful woman.

Early Days

Little boys
unsupervised
genetically designed
like toys
beguiled by fantasies
spontaneously play
improvised games
like actors
with imagined scripts
depicting violent scenes
as common themes
reflecting personalities
blooming slowly
in the park
at the bottom of the street.