Bill Barone- Three Poems

Holy Thursday in Hell

 

For souls who have not done their duty,

the onset of spring

is particularly galling.

Then comes the choice

that should be easy but never is:

Now or Eternity?

 

I am sitting on the couch

at the end

of the afternoon

head in hands                                                                            

heart pounding blood to eyes.                  

The latest supper is on the stove,

but who is there to eat it?

                               

Anything is better

than to spend another hour

doing this.

The heart runs wild.

Good God,

you should know.

Whatever the choice,                                                                            

it is bound to end badly.

 

Lord, hear my cry.

If you know me,

Jesus,

say my name.                                                          

 

One Hundred Afternoons

 

Flat beer in a tall glass,
warm gin in a coffee cup.
Something's not right.
Cigar smoke haunts the airwaves
where my best friend and used car dealer
is steaming in hot summer blowouts.
I burn these hours like lambs,
but the ashtray's not full.
I could shoot cool glances
through the brown leaves of the rhododendron
at cars with bad mufflers or taste in music,
or pull another jigger of sweat

with a napkin from my eyebrow

but don’t bother.
The white sun bleaches leaves,
sucks stalks and limps roots.
I don't care.
I can wait.

When rain falls
it does its work
slowly
silently
secretly
discreetly
underground.

 

All Hallow’s Eve

 

Autumn’s brilliance died days ago

and now lies rotting on the hard bones

of gasping October.

 

The flat moon hangs in the dead sky,

a mockery of lovers offering the wasted light

of a derelict night.

 

It is a senseless journey

to feel the cold black mud

suck at your feet

and drag you back

and beckon you in

so that each labored step feels like your last.

A vagrant dog howls

submission to a hollow moon and

the cold breeze escapes

another deflated soul.

 

The air sinks heavy with fragile wisps,

hauntingly absent,

yet seeming to sway behind each dying weed,

shiver below each molding leaf,

scatter like spiders beneath your soles

to hint of Death’s secret touch.

 

Hot breath cannot pierce the dark,

but only steam and rise upward

to be swallowed by the gray skull of moon

that bores its hungry eyes downward

and grinds its crusting teeth

and cracks its ragged jaw in warning:

 

“Die now!

Prepare yourselves for morning.”

 

 

 

Bill Barone earned his B.A. in English from Penn State and his M.A. in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. He has taught at several colleges and universities in Pennsylvania and Ohio and is currently teaching English courses online. His poems have appeared in a number of publications, most recently in Dark Matter Journal. He lives in suburban Cleveland with his wife.