nymph

leaden words on your lips, white etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
nonsense, your voice drips. dips. regard the good.
don’t you see the cream spotting the path? the moss
is dappled in sun, veiled in virtue.
my feet sink into the dirt. but the etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
I curl my fingers against the bark. a nymph.
I find myself catching a glimpse
of green eyes in green leaves. let her be, your voice lifts.
she will not hurt you. here, a kiss will set your ease.
what is wicked is not to be believed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

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I’m Not Related

I’m not related to that dinosaur,
though I saw him sitting on my porch,
like he was my blood-born uncle.
That leather-skinned bigot
stole my place settings.
See, I was going to make a nice table,
and I had a roast in the oven.
I would have invited him too —
out of courtesy, of course —
but he left scratch marks in the wood
and now there aren’t any plates left.
No respect, nowadays, he grunts,
like he’s been around the globe.
Around the globe? Around the years, maybe,
I think, but he hasn’t got a wit to show for it.
Now I’ll tell you again, I don’t know
what he did with my place settings,
and he isn’t allowed on my property anymore —
For God’s sake, I’m not related to that dinosaur.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe