Bushman’s Hallelujah

Bushman’s Hallelujah

The percussive beat

rolls on,

non stop in the night,

a quick pitter patting

of an excited heart,

a bushman’s hallelujah

The percussive beat

rolls on,

non stop in the night,

a quick pitter patting

of an excited heart,

a bushman’s hallelujah .

The beat slowed down

like water drops

running out

that dropped

progressively slower

to faint

and quiet beats,

that fade.

Dead silence

In the night

replaced them.

Planes landed .

Lights in windows

turned on ,

and silently

life continued

in them .

From “Ruminations Of The Dead” by PWChaltas

On Queen Street West

On Queen Street West

The sirens of the city

are traveling along

the fabric bazaars

and appliance stores

of Queen Street West.

The wood tin spire

of St Marks

lurches into the air

at an angle

listening.

The daylight heat

is blazing.

So is the fire.

The fire trucks

are bullets.

They careen

breakneck down

the street.

Shining

red and yellow cabs

follow right

behind them.

Do they care

about the fire?

The fire is burning

somewhere along

Queen Street

and

black smoke is rising

up into the air.

From “The Black and Other Base Elements “by PWChaltas

Dinner Conversation With Self

Dinner Conversation  With Self

Sat down at my table
for a dinner for one .
Salmon on salad
water with lemon
done quickly
to catch an evening  flick.
Soon an elderly lady
with a white chin beard
and a head of grey hair
sat at a  table beside me .
Rotund body wrapped in red ,
complete with her imaginary friend ,
she never stopped talking
the whole time she was there .
“Charles proposed this
and mother she just disagreed ‘”
she said
and on she went all through her meal
of burger and frites ,
with a wavering thumb .
She only spoke  briefly
and ever so curtly
with the waitress ,
but in her head
the conversation
fluidly continued .
I thought to myself :
What’s less uncomfortable ?
This lady who leaves
nothing unsaid ,
or a diner next to me
eating  in deafening silence .
I’ll pick this lady I confided
secretly to myself,
and under my breath .
After finishing I waited
awhile  to make her feel
welcome and more at ease
then got up smiling  to leave .
There was a disappointment
marked on her face .
She was losing a
dining companion ,
but she never stopped talking
regardless .

Outside in a lobby cafe
I noticed another
elderly lady
was sleeping on
folded newspaper pillow,
her head flat on the table .
She was thin  pale, frail
but well dressed .
She was dreaming or dead .
A young coupled checked
to make sure
that she wasn’t ill or dead,
before I could get there .
Old age really sucks
I thought to myself
but being there alone
Is  without question
much  worse.

City

Image

Urbane

City
Surrounded by concrete,
lights,
and a crescent moon,
the obsolescence
of hearts confounds.
The milquetoast of regret
seizes,
and shattered glass
repentance
cuts a tear
of cerium oxide rust
in the soul.
It’s imperfect with
the screech of feather
cutting air,
as crackpots entertain
trained monkeys
on bandwidths,
while we engage
in the urbane .

From “Persephone’s Call” by PWChaltas