Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.



Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.


I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.



Broken Branch of a Family Tree

I have tried to blend your letter with my existence.  Still the image that arrived had been brittle and contrived such as, the northern winds.

We have been two infinities of an ill mended collage.

A door unhinged.  Your words fall to the ground…dripping and unglued.

There is no room left for family in the tree.100_1211

From a dead end branch to another…there can be no integrity.


But as your letters come and go…

I had hoped you would learn to spell…



Heretic Blues

Had he loved his women?  He loved them as much as guilt.  As far as, the sharing of misdeeds could stretch.  But this one, the Keeper, carried the culpability, as though it were a cup of tea.  A precious chalice of saturation to a thirsty martyr lurking behind a family tree.isle-of-imcompletes-3

The shame forever evolved.  Resembling a tossed out Marlboro…an everlasting ash of gray .  White, burned out, trash, here to stay..

A partner to, his,  biblical claim.  Delilah…her name.

Theirs was a love affair of another kind.

Delilah, with her Yukon Jack and Pall Malls.

Sampson, with accusations making everything around…small.

If one were too close.  Blinded.  Eyes shut tight.  It would still emerge as though, heaven’s humor.  Were as poignant and pointed, as the Papal’s shoes.

How droll?  His and Her, backward, bibles…old news.220px-papal_shoes

No punchline.  No testaments!  Sampson,  just an aging fool.

A marriage to divine comedy.  Where everyone put on flawed red shoes and danced to heretic, hazy, hues.


Sister Catherine



Spare the rod?

Incriminate the child?

The older the branch…the more the rot.

Should I just agree…to our terminal lot?

I wish I knew you when you were young.

Seems to be an obvious reality…

I am not you…

You are not me.

Looking up while looking back.

A shaky and shady wooded mass.

Stood as a shelter for withered masks.

Perhaps, a down trodden maple

poising as a family staple.

Haltered from the bottom to top.

Bringing  obliged kisses ‘sleep tight!’

A full circle around Disney on a Sunday night.

Were you there, pretending to be just a little out sight.

Had you been my savoir…12 inches tall, dressed in black and white?

Sometimes my memories no matter how I talk to them…do not fit right.

Odd, back in the day, spiraled and wired brushes…all the rage.

Seemed that fad just reminds me of being betrayed.

‘Wait til your father gets home…’ is all I had heard.

Now, whenever a brush is combed and unfurled.

Late in the evening, when the life around us is not mine…

And, it is not yours.

I wonder if you are out there shaking the family tree for a cure.

In those small moments, after a rerun of ‘All in the Family’…

I think of you and wonder…

has she found the hour between suffering and serenity?