Ghost writer

All murky she sat,
with her palindrome pen,
as she flavoured the localized ether.

And her Hallowe’en cat
was asleep once again,
as it lay on the carpet beneath her.

When she’d written her prose,
and its vapours arose,
she danced (for the spirit was willing).

Her compadres were lazy,
and the rest had gone crazy,
so the market was hers for the killing.

[Art by Bryan Baugh]

Once, in a blue moon

What happens up there
on that day-faded see-through moon?
(A long long sail,
by any nautical standard.)
No one is certain.
My scholarly theory says
there are silent factories
dug down deeply.
There, they make cups and saucers.
(But not the kind you think)
The Engineers think and design.
The Builders build.
And, many thousands wield fantastic brooms
to vex the flow of hourglass moondust.
There are roads that ramp up and break the surface.
They are correctly camouflaged,
and, all along the watchtowers, tall sentries can be seen.
They have white dreadlocks,
round spectacles, and binocular eyes.
When The Day comes,
the fleet will be ready.
My Auntie Gravity lives there.