Believing in Mrs Gilley

Knock

Who is there - at the door, Mrs Gilley?

Knock - Knock

Who is it - that steps upon our threshold

And disturbs our very pleasant morning, Mrs Gilley?

Why!   It is the Taxman

Who presents himself

At the brink of duty.

Shall we invite his soul in for tea Mr Gilley?

Knock - Knock - Knock

Why Mr Verge foolishly eases so much closer upon the edge.

Can you see his eyes, Mrs Gilley?

Do they contain the light of human kindness?

Dear Mr Gilley, I don’t believe they are invested in such notions.

After all, he was,

He is and he will always

Hold to his tasks as the Taxman.

Dearest Mrs Gilley go forth and discover thy purse of lamb’s ear

And hold it secret to your luscious bosom’s warmth –

Knock - Knock – Knock - Knock

Ahh, Mr Verge,

I wouldn’t be so persistent to cross this portal

If thee knew of trusty Old Tom’s double barrels

That rest upon my arms

Waiting and primed to pay

Leaded loads upon you, the Taxman.

Mr Gilley please, before you meet with the devil’s hand –

Go off with me out the back door –

Hand in hand, my dearest love.

Oh! how sweet you are my beautiful wife.

How lovely that would be - to fall away with you

As I do each morning whence,

I envision the deep - deep blue of your eyes!

Knock - Knock – Knock – Knock – Knock

But Alas, there is nowhere else to flee, Mrs Gilley.

And, we are too old, frail and shall not be for long.

I’ll see to it that Mr Verge and Old Tom

Come to a final understanding.

Knock _

\BAM

\BAM

There - it is done.

Mrs Gilley, shall we have another cup of tea

Before we complete this day?  

Very well, Mr Gilley, let us have one more tea and lemon. 

The day mustn’t end before we reach our destiny.

Do you still remember the way there, Mr Gilley?

Why, my love, I could walk there if I were blind,

Crawl myself there - if I lacked my legs,

I would merely follow the sweet sweet

Lilac bouquet of your golden hair.

Mrs Gilley, it is time –

Here, hold my hand, dearest love.

 I shall never - ever let you go again,

For missing you has been my agony to bear

And now, we will be together, once again.

Mrs Gilley.

Yes, Mr Gilley.

Do you believe in me, Mrs Gilley - as I believe in you?

Complicate Complicated

it's complicated

he says-

yes, it is complicated

too complicated

he explains-

yes, it has complexity

complex is complicated

she says-

is less complicated

simply better

better is not complicated

she says-

is better a metaphor

better is complex

so is a metaphor

within a metaphor

complex

a one metaphor is better

than a two metaphor

it's complicated

he says-

yes, it is complicated

that is a metaphor

write it complex

it's complicated

but - is it better

Cold

I am cold -

That I am naked; alone

A silhouette across the moon’s face.

You are cold -

Within your white woven coat

A cocoon waiting to evolve wings.

It is cold -

Names and places forgotten

For nostalgia is bittersweet tea.

Night is cold -

And the discussions white noise

For cold revelers speak randomness.

Prayers and Prayers

in one way or another

we are each other’s orphans

by way of society's natural

lines of separation

victims and

perpetrators reflections in a circle

a predator draws power

from his prey’s fear

and death

becomes the end of each

prayers and prayers

lined up like silent thoughts

sitting in empty chairs

waiting for the eulogy

to explain

what everyone already knows

Moment of Inertia

If I were not so casted I’d be in a real funk

Were I a smart crease – I’d not be in a rumpled drunk

Were I able to comprehend

The parallel axis theory

Then I might possibly understand

Why the moment of inertia is so eerie

I might also explain why we live in the rain

And yet, never complain about all the dry pain

Can a poet who can no longer rhyme

Be executed for a writing crime

Hey, you there in the back corner

Are you here to collect for the coroner

The covers of darkness drape

Knotted together like a bow tie across the nape

Tonight the morning waits fate

All the ghosts stayed late - for Bordeaux’s sate.

Stardust Falling

at the end of the road

at the end of the day

near the glacial

woods

near the glacial

moods

there is mute

eyes

there is mute

cries

seeking much

to see

seeking much

to be

at the end

of the road

at the end

of the day

is that stardust

falling from the skies

is that stardust

failing at Ziggy's cries

AZUL Collection of Poems

Azul

Blue River flows
from the depths of my soul
through sanity’s darkness
beyond vision’s crest
to where faith glows;
gather at the watering spools
rise above the maelstrom’s toll
consume metamorphosis of Azul.

http://joseph-calvillo.squarespace.com/

Mother’s New Spring

‘Tis the season of the light

In the darkest of forests

Where the titans of industry

And their dominion of consummators

Devoured themselves into a long abject night

With aberrant appetites

And a deviant abuse of nature’s resources.

 

Now, from the black forests, a sublime sight

A spark; a glean of new reality

Begins to transform a long death

into life again

As mother’s loins return to fertility

And the plasmatic fluids congeal

 

To pubescent forms of growth in reveal.

Mating with Silence

 

Mating with Silence

 

 

essential paintings hang upon bland walls

their frames can no longer see

the misaligned nail hole that appalls;

the chess player’s lost mind recalls

names of the pieces standing out at sea

 

has the queen’s pawn jumped free

 

numbered chairs sit apart round the tables

their place assigned to a name

the disquieting silence finds many fables

within the stilled house of the four gables;

and those who live there - are not the same

 

has the king’s knight slipped free

 

temporary rooms in a house of four wings

with quarters positioned for a longing stay

of those who wait dementia’s insulting stings;

an organ sits in memory of old flings

as music sheets no longer turn to play

 

 

for the game’s mate has fallen silent and free

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stopping for a Wake

 

 

 

 

 

Walking round the outer edges

of the room so to avoid the empty

metal chairs that fit neatly in rows of ten

waiting to sit as if death’s witnesses;

clusters of family share quietly

like strangers whispering secrets

for time has changed everyone to older

forms of the stilled images pictured

in the photographs of a chronicle

that covers a hundred years of connections.

 

From the nostalgic old fashion clothes and hair styles

through today and the time that is left -

now the mind winces; the heart trembles; the eye tears

and the spirit tilts slightly; bowing

to the uncertain probabilities

as the presence of death’s vestige lies in open view

and each one who passes by, in final respect,

senses the nearness of the frozen moment

when we will come to an end

and someone gathers the picture’s stopping for a wake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Doggie That Knows Prose

 

 

 

 

 

On the corner by the bush

I can sniff Toby’s tush

he was here - not so long ago

lifting his leg high then low

upon the birch bark

along the doggie trail park.

 

And then, there in the yellow snow

Fifi left her smell for me to know

the swell past is here in the now

so I may write poetry

with tortured bow wow

woofing for more rhymes

and the good times

behind our old tree.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Children's Colors

 

 

Children’s Colors

the mint green julep has soured

the whimsical pastels have become dark and ruddy

the cold night air evolves back unto itself

 and with each passing day gathers in the hours

in the autumn one must lay down with the fallen leaves bloody

for mother always reclaims her children’s colors