Author: David Wright

Refugee of the Christmas Wars

HOLLY boughs–chance sight as I flee, and slop through
MARSH. Refugee of the Christmas wars, I fly panicked to my
EXILE. Which my side? I can’t remember: Holly bespeaks joy of holiday
,
while thought of Christmas cheers me. Wasn’t there a war, though?

Malice’s Invention

COVEN: facile conspiracy theory: occult women causing
AFOOT in the land: plagues, drought, crazy youths.
ENEMY so easily manufactured, but real world hard to grasp.
MIGHT: so often channeled through malicious invention, like what is invented about covens.

Rrrrregret

BEGET wish of stolen doubloons on the Spanish Main,
arrrr-EGRET will be your lot. A pirate’s life has no proper end,
BLARE of battle, crash of cannon, loss of limb,
CLOSE run escape-five pieces of eight to show.

My Raven Friend

QUOTH Zarathustra, my raven friend:
DANCE will I, should you give me
ASCOT (apricot-he’s a raven–not know for elocution).
CIRCA 3 seconds in, this Quordle poem hit a wall.

Sonoran Sands

TROOP across Sonoran sands and every breath is
HOTLY scalding lungs. Flaming orb hovering above, below, beside.
UMBRA, black cave entrance, signals relief–a mile up the hill.
TURBO mode cannot get me there fast enough, with white flashing in my eyes.

Win Thee A Duchy

CLERK tallies cargo, regrets it as prosaic.
WATER off the wharf glints and beckons, to a place
RARER than here, nobler by its mystery, place where a
DUCHY, not dinner, might be won by enterprise.

Idea Lacks Lustre

BOOTH in the market, attempt to re-begin,
DEUCE of a thing to lose a fortune, and retry a life,
ROAST marmot seemed an idea, but they’re not selling,
PROVE once again, please, that a new idea can emerge in time.

In Behemoth’s Shadow

TIGHT fit in sound as cruise ships pass
ISLET’s small plot, once content in smallness, now in behemoth’s shadow,
AGONY of lost proportion, no size makes sense,
BASTEd by artificial swells and diesel fumes.