BROTHERS OF DARKNESS The brothers of darkness have fearsome beards and love to lurk in overgrown graveyards. They record their impressions of a world gone askew with Scottish hearts and the eyes of the Ojibway. They prefer forest shadow to throbbing thoroughfares and consider the wind their uncivilized crony. Ruins enthrall them more than corporate towers. They feel at home there to uncoil their verse                        and ogle a swirl of           stars.

BROTHERS OF DARKNESS II They dwell in the darkest shadows of night, Scribbling on the vellum of young goat skin, Their words are drawn in cruel letters thin, Like their fingers, bird talons, hard and tight, The poems they sing come from voices broken, The tune is a hundred thousand dying, The beat, the sharp sound of babies crying, The lyrics are cold Death himself, spoken. Brothers of darkness speak of elder things, Words so hot their tongues spark with arcane fire, Old truths they reveal to those who would hear, Of tentacular spawn and silent wings, Of creatures who feast on hate and drink fear, Of lost Ryleh and those who ne'er expire.

SUNLIGHT   Sunlight streamed through the window   to levitate the dust of dead ponies.   The stalls reeked of their presence,   and loft winds whinnied their names.   Only the boy who had owned them   remembered not their nuzzle love.   He was foreman at the slaughterhouse   and drank too much and too often.

THE BARN Where we used to keep the horses Where we used to shovel the muck Where we used to fix the harnesses Where we used to birth the foals Where we used to hang the sacrifices Where we used to hear the squeals Where we used to visit with devils Where we used to dance until morning Where we used to wash up the blood Where we used to put in clean straw Where we used to wish for the next full moon.

ghosts   don't   dig   the   hum   of   efficient machines

THE MACHINE The clattering rumble of the machine Wakes the ground to its terrible fate The blades begin to spin like ninja swords And the roots of the weeds creep deeper The man driving the machine thinks of winter When he can sit at home away from the heat And wonder what the next year will bring After he drives the machine After he brings rape and torture To the Earth

THE BRIDGE IN THE WOODS He saw an old bridge in the woods, Its span crossed over water dark, Its shadows housed spirits cruel, Eyes dancing like a little spark. Those black bridge-dwellers followed him, Back to his log home by the creek, Their red-colored stares filled the air, From every corner did peek. In the depths of the night they hunted, Shadows of his cabin for their prey, His flesh they would render and bite,                            His salvation; the light of day. The fire he stoked with pine logs, A candle burned on the hearth, Fell asleep for he could not wake, His bones lie in the cold, cold earth.

FOUNDATIONS AND TUNNELS Foundations and tunnels were all that remained of the once-mighty mill. An indentured race toiled there, churning out building blocks and agony. The town name was stamped on each brick. Wasted byways choked with briars are build of these signature stones.

AGAIN The building had housed a silk mill, a roller rink, and a doomed silicon works. It was built of crumbling brick, and inside were rooms of misused machines. After dark, strange blue light flickered thru grime-smeared windows. Maimed men rose again to manufacture accidents of extreme decibel death.

TWO HOUSES Two houses divided by hate was it hate or love so big it couldn't be contained did it matter now as the flames curl up around the first, then the second the ashes indistinguishable?

 

EBB TIDE TRAUMA   Beyond the barbed wire   hissed the sea.   It frothed and gurgled   like a strangled thing,   thrashing and splashing.   Fog's cold fingers   were wrapped   around its throat.   Ebb tide trauma   beached starfish   and blue whale alike.

COLD MORNING Come cold morning And wash away the dross Of another night of battle. Come cold morning And burn away the foe Who tore at us from darkness. Come cold morning And heal our bleeding wounds Won without smiles or cheers. Come cold morning  And give rest to those Who sleep when vampires sleep.

PONTIAC 1956 The proud Indian head  Stands on the hood Defying the neglect Only the blackberries  Worship you now No polish No pretty girls Giving it up in the backseat Their maidenheads sacrificed To your power and steel.

CODE 187   Mysterious men were dead in a car.   Their faces were cold paste,   and their eyes empty of confession.   The car itself was crumpled accordion steel.   Did the driver die in the crash   or of the bullet holes in the windshield?   His ghost refused to be interrogated   as it gagged on our exhaust smoke.

THE COMBINE The combine sits forgotten Unused now except to house mice It sits remembering past days The taste of soil As it tore into the earth. The combine sits neglected Unused now to till the ground It sits remembering The taste of blood As it ripped off Old Man Kinsey's arm.

HARDPAN GROUND Sharecroppers can't prosper on hardpan ground that dulls plows and yields harvests of burdock and poison oak. Jerseys get dry udders grazing on drought grass. Hens elope with coyotes rather than be barren.

NIGHT LAKE Tonight the winds have fallen low, And roar and foam are nothing now, Water lies still about the bow, Only bats, night hunters, show. I sit on the dock and dream of Her golden hair, a sunlit crown, Her watery shift--silver gown, Her hand reaching to me above. But airy depths separate us, Cold oxygen builds walls between My wind-blown skin, her fishy sheen, The waves bind us back like a truss. I'll join her now in the deep weeds, I'll give up breath and life for her, My old ways become but a blur, On this lover, the small trout feeds.

NIGHT LAKE II             Her spirit came here often                  to bathe in the cove.             Translucent as moonglow,              she flitted along the dock            murmuring with mosquitoes.   Whippoorwills welcomed her presence,        and the loon called her by name.            Her lover had held her under    until her bilge pump drowned his seed.             He escaped to rule the tides.          Doomsday she would meet him             in the watery palace of Hell.

THE RUIN A hiker asked: where can I find the ruin? Showing me a map drawn by a gas station attendant, How could I tell him? About a place so dear, so lost, to me? I guess I must have been tired, for I told him it lie over there, He thanked me with a five dollar bill, I threw it away without a thought; what was money to the dead?

MANY THINGS Vacant windows leer from the brush line. Diseased trees writhe above a peeled roof, and a crumbled chimney croaks no smoke. The wind stays well beyond the fence row. There are many things spookier than death.

A CAUTIONARY TALE OF THE SHORT-CUT BESIDE THE OLD UNUSED TRAIN TRACKS They used a sun bleached skull for their sign-- keep out! Spiked to a dead birch tree beside the dirt track We all saw it clearly, set there with nails Four of us wanted nothing to do with Those dark men with strange curved backs A fifth laughed at that skull We wouldn't follow him then We won't talk when He returns with a humped back.

STAR CRAFT   The Conquistadors sneered   at the warning skull   posted before the city of gold.   Sunlight bounced off their armor   as they brandished bright swords   crafted of Toledo steel.   Only their steeds sensed danger,   snorting and resisting the reins.   A great glint came   from a tower above,   melting shield and cuirass   and thin bronze skin.   Soldiers shrieked   as the scorching beam   bored through the pride   of Spanish invention.   The stench of seared flesh   rose to where the Incan King   aimed his laser orb.   It had been a gift from Sky Lords   who descended with lightning   to teach him their star craft.   These minotaurs would   mock no more!

AVALANCHE RUSH The snows collapsed our hunting camp in an avalanche rush of rust and splinters. Squashed were countless poker nights and the cozy scent of wet wool jackets drying by the fire. The roof now kisses concrete-- payback for a century of slain bucks bragged about by granddad, father, and woodsman son.

THE POPLARS It began with a deer hunt, His buck dropped in the poplars, The blood swelling onto the leaves, But disappearing much too quick, To be an ordinary stand of trees. The second time was an experiment, He brought the neighbor's cat Which he hated about as much As the neighbor -- an insurance man, He cut the throat and watched with delight. The third time was the last, He brought his wife in a sack, But she got free with a kick, And took the axe to him instead, Now she watches the poplars feast

 
 

THE BLIZZARD The blizzard changed the graveyard into an apocalyptic ocean of winter spray. Tombstones were whitecaps in a wild sea. Trees flailed octopi limbs whenever the wind shrieked in fury.

SNOW IN A GRAVEYARD Snow in a graveyard Acts as a security blanket --Keeping the Earth warm in winter --Keeping Spring at bay --Keeping the dead in their beds Fall snow -- in white sheets For the dead like to dig When warm treats await.

Poems by WPR: "Brothers of Darkness", "Sunlight",  "ghosts", "Foundations and Tunnels", "Again", "Ebb Tide Trauma", "Code 186", "Hardpan Ground", Night Lake II, "Many Things", Star Craft,  "Avalanche Rush", "The Blizzard".  Photos: WPR Cover, #3, 4, 7, 9, 11, 12.

Poems by G. W. T: "Brothers of Darkness II", "The Barn", "The Machine", "The Bridge in the Woods", "Cold Morning", "Two Houses",  "Pontiac 1956", "The Combine", "Night lake", "The Ruin", "A Cautionary Tale of the Short-Cut Beside the Old Unused Train Tracks", "The Poplars", "Snow In a Graveyard".  Photos: #1, 2, 5, 6, 8, 10,