Because my thoughts hath dodgéd Death –
It ‘bruptly stopped for me –
The Uber driver, he and I,
And my eternity.

He wiped the right hand seat for me
And offered peated Scotch.
I quaffed the high intoxicant–
Now life dint mean so much.

Sunlight, saw it first: I cried as,
Tuggéd, I was spawned.
An IQ test in my fourth grade
Exposed to all but me,
Labeled me a progeny
And there my troubles yawned.

Then playground toughs when I was ten
Their thorns ensconced my crown.
Then high school bullies taunted me
Down to a vengeful mess.
At nights I blender’d out their eyes
To gooey blindedness.

I see now hundreds: urns of ash!
The Uber passes yon.
Of such extent is vital man
Worn through his life, his sash.

Siblings’ Sins – a poem and a note

Siblings’ Sins

Emily Emily

Horses of eternity
Stand fetlock-still for Emily — her
Groom, the teamster Death is waiting.
Bright’s Disease enjoins the mating.

Eager for his long betrothéd –
Garments’ royal verse she clothéd
Him, her decades’ virgin’s pining —
Pine plank bedsheets be their linen.

Burn no manuscript for incense
Even at her own insistence!
Square church altar not the nuptial:
Buttercup’d mound their sepulchre.

Sister Livvie saves the verses —
Libbie’s inner universes —
Luminate the world-wide now,
Eclipse our theft-saved almost-curses!

Yet Bronte Emily stands to faint, to
Waft her life like fumes from paint; is
This your laugh, tuberculosis?
Sister knows a diagnosis.

Charlotte’s claim: for Emmie’s fame she
Touched the Heights’ sequel to flame. Yet
Buried siblings know no shame. Has
Char charred criticisms down? Or
Burned her own — a green-eyed gown?

I know I’m not alone for being chagrined at Charlotte’s burning of her sister Emily’s second manuscript. What had the authoress of the incomparable Wuthering Heights wrought? Alas, we will never know. Lucky for us, the other immortal Emily, the poetess, had family that knew what treasures awaited a world.