The Mare

(Of: wails, ales, ails and Wales,

Solomon's saga of sacred union,

May the mead of plenty have served you well by now

and your eyes be clear)

within the echo of

horse neighing

and hoarse naying

whores known

does the wind ever remember Mary

and cry love's rain

it should be whispered softly

directly to your ear

do not shame yourself further

in the role of the old man target

comically lusting after lost youth

another fattened booze saga too played

for derision on that asskissing lip

you, the father

much stronger than you know

shoot that lying coyote bunk high

dead between the eyes

the wave recedes to reform

and travel to new shores

the rocking wastrel is a temporary costume

for the tragic stages of honesty

washing up on the beach

deadwood

the theater roiling with starved ghouls

and waning junkies

your true groove is whole canyons deeper

the heart howls to run clear of the bloated corpses

bobbing in the shallow drink of the river

you have your freedom hard won blessed

and need nothing further to begin

leave their reflections trapped by the water's edge

rise to shining

deep blood red in the sunlight

air to the sky's blues

blow a kiss

to the watchers shifted onward

casting spells through my hands for your release

of all sickness

I have sung your soul already safe

and here to me

choose wisely the humble

wife of the true Dagda

sister of the moon

awakens the rose's day

belov'd truly

awaiting only your own bravery

reclaimed