• Fear
• "...Clouds of glory do we come from god, which is our home..."
• My english teacher droned out yet another Wordsworth verse
• I'll forgive an instructor for failing to have voice.
• I simply can't forgive a man who makes Wordsworth sound worse.
• Poetry addresses all the luxury of living,
• As time posesses memories of all preceeding life,
• Yet in my mind, I often write a verse with poison inking
• And with the quill within my hand, begin to turn the knife.
• Scattering before me like the cattle to the kill
• A slaughtering of images are unleashed before the tree
• I scamper down below the deck, then pull the handle there,
• To let ideas flow like blood, as the thoughts hang free.
• The simple clicking of the rack exposes living nerves,
• And as I prick each one of them, a shudder passes through.
• The body of the poem spews out organs in a heap,
• Releasing all the fears you keep down deep in side of you.
• (c) 1990 David Brager
• Horror
• Ransoming the horror lot amid the maroon hues,
• A spit of blood flows evenly, and glides down to the floor.
• I curse the walls and hallowed halls from which the demons came,
• Patiently, I wait to see the screen fill up with gore.
• Tis been a while since I took time to watch a human feast
• As devil dogs tear noisily at flesh of a dying man
• And in my ears, I hear the weeping from the crowd around,
• But in my heart, I know that I'll enjoy it all I can.
• At last the police show up at the grizzly murder scene
• As green-faced co-parishener sits sickly in a chair,
• But as I take in odors, there's a scent I recognise,
• And I'm surprised to find that its not popcorn in the air
• Engrossed within the screening, now, I follow through the night,
• Awaiting for the Mad One to engulf this very door
• And as the house lights turn on, I turn to get my coat,
• I wait until the crowds are gone, So I can kill once more.
• (c) 1990 David Brager
• Printed in the January 1994 issue of "Writer's Workshop Review"

Return to Homepage