Hauntings in the Dawn (a poem)

Ghosts in this house make no sound
They are only around to watch
Flashing images of my mind
And extract memories from times
I dwell in forsaken chambers

They belabor the process of death
Let’s get it over with, we say,
Let’s kill these emotions during
The bright light of the day –
Instead of waiting for fire-soaked
Nights under harvest moons
And pastures of bitter gloom

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A Visit from the Grim Reaper (a poem)

The Grim Reaper visits me in the heat
of noontime, black cloak passing
sun’s rays into my eyes, blinds me.

I cannot see (why) the Reaper is here,
picking this time in bitter sunshine to
hoarsely whisper sweet nothings.

A bone-white face, cruel, he opens
his jagged mouth and screams, the sound
smashes windows, makes babies cry.

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Free Books? Yes, Please!

About a year ago, Rachel and I moved to a new neighborhood in Philly that’s, well, very well-read and educated. One of the reasons I say this is because of the bounty of “free libraries” we see during our walks.

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