Seven years down the road
with dirty feet and no abode
I’d wander to and fro
along the narrow streets
of an ancient village
And when the monster came for me
I did not even claim to see
his vile disfigurement
in the dim winter light
in that ancient village
For years I tried to sail away
having failed to keep the beast at bay
but my ship always
circled back ’round
to that ancient village
Then they’d throw me in some grimy pit
with scarcely room to for me to sit
and I’d whisper curses
under my breath
about that ancient village.
Then the monster would call on me
and all the townspeople would flee
as I wreaked havoc
on the town square
of that ancient village
Author Archives: B Gourley
POEM: Do They Really Sleep?
Are these sleepy little villages and hamlets really tucked into bed by eleven?
When my train rolls by and there is nothing on display to my bleary eye
except vacant roads, dark shadows, and the dim glow of night-lights.
Cars are still; people are absent; time is frozen but for the wind-blown hedges.
But do these villages go to sleep, or do they just turn off the lights
and do those things which should not be subjected to the light?
DAILY PHOTO: Mossy Green Spring
A St. Paddy’s Day Note
POEM: Perception of Self
That cat thinks she’s quite a mouser
but, truth be told, she’s just a houser.
At stalking and lurking she’s a master.
But catching? Well… they get past her.
POEM: The Street Sleeps
Litter skitters down the street,
stopping beseechingly at my feet.
No one likes the morning chill.
So this raucous street is now still.
Still but for the will to wake.
Shhh! Let it sleep for goodness sake.
POEM: This Indescribable Feeling
I lack the words to dignify this feeling.
Imagine a coarse hemp rope knotted around one’s heart
It’s cinched tighter and tighter, tugged at both ends
The rope creaks under this burden, but it does not snap
It creaks like an old wooden sailing vessel, riding the swells
DAILY PHOTO: Daylight Bat-signal in Tallinn, Estonia
POEM: Deceit Days
What an apple!
–spoiled and rotten
The weave of lies
is soon forgotten.
Cast and reel,
no hook is set.
Which lie is true?
He soon forgets.
He says,
Just let me be, and I won’t lie.
But ask me now and it’s fib or die.
The lying life is tenuous.
Backpeddling? Strenuous
POEM: Overcast Day
Clouds tugged themselves over the city like a thick quilt
adding to the gritty gray inner-city nightmare.
I rode through this monochrome madness
without seeing a person on the sidewalks.
I felt their eyes peer down through ash-covered windows,
like a hand running over the tips of tiny hairs on my back
A high-pitched tone sounded in my ears
filling the void of chirpless birds and dumbstruck relicts
It can’t be long now.



