by Fegger
For he never did come home.
‘Pon scattered grass and gravelly dirt;
Drops to reverent knee,
While fanning simple pleats about,
Her dress, in modesty.
She twists the knob and raises wick;
And it curls with cloak of flame.
She whets her lips, inhaling deep,
Then summons ‘pon his name:
“Bartholomew, Bartholomew,
Can you see that I ‘ave come?
Are you near, me sweetest husband?
‘Tis I, your Mary Dunn!
I had me thoughts to come t’night,
To ‘ave a word with you,
That’s pressin’ on me heart so fierce,
Ya’ ‘round Bartholomew?
Aye, that’d be just like ye some,
To wait fer me confess;
A’twisten’ in me awkward words,
No salve fer me distress!
Yet I—I need t’hear yer voice
An’ calmin’ words to heal,
The anxious quiver, here, inside,
A’longin’ to reveal.”
The widow paused, collecting will,
And questioned own intent;
To cast a net to spirit’s world,
Dispensing her repent.
She wrings her fingers nervously,
While waiting ‘pon the dead;
When suddenly a breeze did rise,
Then a hand upon her head.
“Mary Dunn, me Mary Dunn,
‘Ave not better things to do;
Than wander ‘bout such crypts at night,
A’hovered by the moon?
What keeps y’here in dank an cold,
So callin’ out fer me?
Ye know fer fact I’m dead by now,
An rottin’ in the sea!”
“It’s good to see ya’ too, my love;
Better then, to hear;
That death din’t take away that tongue,
Or how ye prone t’snear.
I ‘spected that I’d smell ya’ first,
That rancid scent o’ whale;
Yer eyes were once quite darker,
Yer skin not quite so pale”.
The spirit corpse then spun about,
Examined high and low,
The fiery bride he’d left behind,
With heart so still aglow.
Warmed by her excited eyes,
And cheeks so pink with life;
He felt a distance aching,
Longing for this wife.
“Ye got a bit of lonely, Mary,
That why ye come tonight;
‘Spectin’ glimpse ‘ov me, like this
‘Wud turn ya’ heart to right?
Sensible is how ye was,
Yet be scurryin’ to find,
Such wisdom in yer harkin’,
To terms ye felt unkind.”
“Stop with ya’! Stop with ya’!
Ya’ stubborn, briney goat!
T’wasn’t me who boarded ship
An’ failed to keep afloat!
Aye, the heaven hasn’t tempered,
The iron in yer will.
Judge me not Bartholomew,
One, amongst the krill!”
The bearded ghost then chuckled,
‘Til tears came to his eyes.
Proud he was to have such time,
To spend with feisty bride.
He then retreats in silence,
As he gleans from her distress,
That she torments with a secret,
To him, she must confess.
“"Bartholomew, me love,"
she embarks to make her plea,
"Ye left me young an' fruitful still,
yet no child ‘pon me knee.
I'm not as sturdy as y'think,
An' tremble at the thought;
deprived I am of husbandry,
my womb be saved fer naught."
Without ye then, I’ll ‘ave no spring,
No child to remind,
Of splendid days, brighter sun,
Me husband now divine.
I’m askin’ yer forgiveness,
And yer permit to pursue,
The kindly callers come to me,
In absence then, of you.”
“Yor speakin’ of the cooper, Tim,
Or Drew, the smithies’ hand?
Aye, better off with men who keep,
Their feet upon the land!
But Tim, I’m sadly knowin’ that,
His time is comin’ due;
An’ if a child be yer design,
There ‘ain’t no seeds in Drew.
I’ll not be one to keep ya’,
To an empty marriage bed.
Lord knows ye d’serve a finer life,
Than keepin’ with the dead.
But ev’rythin’ that’s in me,
Needs ye hurt no more.
Death ‘as grant me favored eyes,
I ‘adn’t known before.
I’ll come ‘ere, e’vry night,
An’ visit, yer desire.
Honest, I will always be,
Tendin’ yer require.
Love ‘been mine for days of flesh,
Then, for eternity.
Go then now, me Mary Dunn,
An’ make a life for thee.”
With courage she did leave that night,
With freedom soon realized,
To pair with then, another mate,
Forsaking former ties.
Yet, on the night that followed,
And for thousands after, too,
She chose the comp’ny of the ghost,
Her lost Bartholomew.
Each night she braved nature’s serve,
Through rain, or cold, or sleet;
Imbibing ‘pon such moment’s time,
To feed on love so sweet.
Each minute spent, Bartholomew,
Rejoiced in hardships, laughter;
And only God and Time will know,
Such treasures in hereafter.
One night, amidst November freeze,
Mary staggered there,
Among the stones akin to home,
With her husband shared;
Lungs revolting, gurgling swell,
Mouth of staining red;
Contrasting earthly suffering,
Found solace ‘mongst the dead.
Fevered to delirium,
Wet, silver-tainted hair,
She settles ‘side familiar post
And finds him waiting there.
Struggles so to form a breath,
In hopes that she may speak,
Surrendering the day’s accounts;
But fears she is too weak.
“Aye, ‘tis time, me Mary Dunn,
A’time that ye come home.
Beyond this night, forevermore,
Y’ll nev’r be alone.
I wish that I could reach ya’ now,
An pull ya’ ‘cross the veil
That’s kept us ‘part these many years,
In spite of what’s prevailed.”
“So ‘lighten me, me whaler man,”
She coughed a pale reply.
“Why’d ya’ choose to lie to me,
To keep me as yo’r bride?
The cooper, he outlived us both,
Eight children sprung from Drew;
Ye lied to me for all these years,
What say, Bartholomew?”
“I feared me own accord, me lass,
From terms set forth above;
Ye cannot cross to waitin’ home,
Unless ye go with love.
An’ I, but one love known to life,
This chance then rest with you
To be me escort to the Lord,
This, I say is true.
Should ye have taken ‘nother man,
I feared that ye’d be his;
An’ ye’d be taken up with him,
&
nbsp; While I’d be left like this;
A-hoverin’ in between such space,
An’ time, by lonesome self;
While pinin’ for me heart of life,
Me Mary’n, no one else.”
“Aye, such flat’ry from des’prate ghost;
It was my life ye know;
I seen ya’ for deceiver,
So many years ago.
But I choose’d to keep me vows to you,
‘Til heaven takes me in;
An’ if I granted sim’lar choice,
I’d choose the same a’gin’.
I’m dying love, I feel it now,
Me spirit needs to leave;
This body sez it’s had enough,
Me time is done, indeed.”
“Lay down, me lass, breath peace,
Lay down ‘n be there, still;
Our fate, as love, ‘pears destiny,
As both our lungs were filled.”
Mary Dunn surrendered then,
To callings of her spirit;
With forever longing arms of his,
She had no cause to fear it.
United once again, at last,
Of faith and love of few,
She crossed into Eternity,
With her love, Bartholomew!
Love and Anger
In love, there is no pinnacle,
No spire to attain;
Upward steps of promise, hope,
To lead in soft refrain.
While anger trenches virgin earth,
And mines with disregard;
Creating graves to bury souls,
Committing self, so marred.
I May Love Again
Such pangs of loss with distant kiss,
Awaiting some reply;
Dispelling fears to be remiss,
Confirming one more lie.
Retired, firm in my solitude,
Where humble I may be;
Yet, you arrive in platitudes
And cannot comfort me.
The gifts of flesh that I’ve bestowed
Have starved this willing soul,
That seeks confluence in its flow
Uniting in the whole.
Dare I ask for what’s un-given,
In terms of fair exchange;
Somehow grant me ‘life’ in living,
Should you remain estranged?
Elope then, heart of tardy need
And seek the starv-ed fill;
Reside with longing spirit’s creed
Which quakes among the still.
Airborne there in unseen plains,
Fly souls of equal yearn;
Who bravely freed their heart untamed,
Awaiting some return.
My prayer distills in solemn brace,
That there will be a ‘when’;
A time, a place, a welcomed face,
And I may love again.
My Choice Remains
Unquenchable lust;
Diving heart-first
Suspended beneath
Molten wax.
Temporal burn
Succumbs to warmth,
Eternal.
Stealing traces
Unattended,
Undesired,
Yet deserving.
Displacing accord
In perfection of fantasy;
Entranced by reception,
And of honest hope.
To feel, as she does:
A replica of unfolding
Vulnerability and chance;
Quaking in the mire
Of promises un-kept,
Or restless visions.
Oh, to bask within:
Where secrets dissolve
And peel petals
Toward sweet pollen;
Such tastes awaken
The deceased one.
Poised as if
I could touch clouds,
Or mists on skin
So supple and fragrant;
Devised in looms
Of rapturous event;
And rested, prone,
In endless tomorrows—
Yet, my choice remains
To Love.
To Be Alive (for Neva Flores, Poet)
Eerie, lifeless pools absorb,
No refraction of such light;
That heralds tardy love within,
Keeps it far from sight.
Once mem’ries sweet, metabolized,
To feed the hungry pangs,
Of loneliness and willful loss,
Opposed to rise again.
In slips of time, of photographs,
When hearts were joined and new;
When words were chosen kindly,
Adjustments far and few;
When radiance was so abound,
It burned within our eyes;
Now felled inside this lonesome pool,
In darkness, there it lies.
Yet prayers suspended in the thick,
Of nights that cannot quell,
Such longing of a spirit’s merge,
To comfort every cell.
My choice has come to face me now,
A dispatch fair and true.
Should I free my heart to waiting winds,
Or seek the depths with you?
I dream of eyes, such mirrors set,
That emit reflections—own;
A place where you and I may dwell,
In peace, in love, a home.
Such dreams I must confess are scant,
For these, in nights, I’ve cried;
So I’ll sadly walk from morbid pools,
And choose to be alive.
Figurine
I bought a crystal figurine,
Of finest lead that I had seen,
Stood in awe of how it gleamed,
As it bent the strands of light.
Displayed upon the safest place,
So near my heart, so near my face,
Indifferent to a love’s embrace,
Awake through all the night.
How I’d pined for luck to own,
Such magic and so freely shown,
Accepting of my life alone,
Rejoiced in my admire.
Crafted in such fine detail,
Preserved inside a spirit, frail,
Eloping passions without trail,
This symbol of desire.
Possession has its price so dear,
When flaws project in forms of fears,
Souls don’t reflect themselves in mirrors,
In lives of bone and skin.
This speaks of weakness, not respect,
Of worlds of wisdom I neglect,
I cannot thrive in retrospect,
But prosper from within.
In time I’d sadly visualized,
Beneath the facets, oxidized,
I watched, so deeply terrified,
As spots became so stark.
Panic consumed my every gain,
Perhaps then tears obscure in rain,
Begging heavens for refrain,
As glass now bends the dark.
Unrequited
Weary is the sense again,
Pervading thoughts this night;
Caressing tapered, loyal friend,
He feels that he must write.
This night, as those in years before,
When lonely came to stay,
His need to hold her then, once more,
In lands so far away.
The parchment crisp in freshness fold,
Yielding to such healings;
As curves and lines of purpose told,
His love, for her, unveiling.
His eyes compressing sadness wells,
Then dry upon his cheek;
As words are born, some anguish quells,
And he doesn’t feel as weak.
Such confidence, his fervor guides,
To confess his honest will;
Unfolding
wealth of love inside,
A place he keeps her, still.
There, he claims, such pure intent,
Will know no other light;
Remorse in tarried moments spent,
In years of youthful plight.
His testament of pining heart,
Mirrors those he’d penned ahead;
Communicating misery’s start,
And emptiness of bed.
With novel image paints a scene,
Which will burst her burning breast;
Then comfort her in kiss, serene,
And knows no passion’s rest.
Content that he has then transcribed
Amendments toward desire;
Of words his drunken heart imbibes,
No means to dowse such fire!
Seals it then, as if were him,
To transport ‘cross the miles,
Where she’d rejoice to faith and whim;
Embracing current trials.
Arriving then, in morning snow,
She grasped the scented dispatch;
Held it ‘gainst her chest aglow,
Such warming mem’ries catch.
Then hobbled to the sacred box,
She kept beneath her bed,
Arthritic hand then fixes locks,
Stores another, left unread.
Inside of Me
The magic of a pencil’s that,
It has opposing ends of two:
One to erase my past mistakes,
The other, write of you.
Yet writing verse of graphite form,
Smears when I should touch,
Cursive exploration, tears,
Of how I loved you much.
New feelings then, new inspiration,
In how best to then describe;
And how best to make it permanent,
Such passions deep inside.
I turned to ink, believing that,
Should I immortalize in pen,
That you would shine your heart on me,
And there’d be ‘us’ again.
Sadly, parchment bled as well,
When so exposed to rain;
That fell so cold within my room,
With but myself to blame.
I learned then, at that moment,
I couldn’t draft a love to be;
And editing deletes all files,
Of love inside of me.
A Love of Souls (for Deb M., writer)
Oh, my raven gypsy;
Curled and poised.
The scent of your anticipation
Bewitches me;
Haunts me in hours of light,
Possessing this moment
Of unions unfulfilled.
Cavernous in heat,
Coals stoked to blue fire
As red talons circle to find hold
Of my tender skin;
As tongues taste
Such wicked passion within.
Air escapes so freely,
Shared warm breath,
Staggered by hearts’ will
