Tree of Crows
High up along the branches as some fruit in barren tree the crows have gathered for a quorum sitting silently. A twist of head the only motion that betrays some stir. A twist of head, then stillness long, as other crows concur. They seem like ordinance stocked up high on a shelf displayed They seem a jury pondering with chin on palm arrayed They seem to wait for bus or train to travel into night and patient are those passengers, sun setting on their flight. The crows they sit and gander at each other's inky mane, the sun asetting crimson hues on branch, on crow as flame. And lurch these large and on'rous things foreboding some avail, and as to where their trek will call one hopes to tell the tale. All Souls Day Star A single Star on All Souls Day was brilliant in the night. The darkness had consumed the sun and grasped up all the light. But there it shone just to the north as twinkles went to sleep. Their eyes were drearily consumed and awake they could not keep. "What haughty brilliance brought to us?" the twinkles dreamt soon on. Our eyes are wrestled with that shine what "Souls Day Star" bought on But laughed away the "All Souls Star" that shined too bright to see, for now that twinkles shine to sleep, the "All Souls Star" shines free. The Rustling of the Satin Dress The beast that bodes accompaniment is silent by her side. It offs a leer, it's head to sway nose down while plying by, Not even steps are heard from Beast to Beast and breath collide and colored doom as darkened room as saunter'd shoulders wye. But why does Beast, like trusted friend ne'er fail to leave her side? Her task must e'er be sure fulfilled without a singlest threat and soleful role and arbiter to dispatch those implied is Beast forever, Beast anon, and Beast whom Gods ne'er met. Her fingers long and supple touch with gentlest of care. Her eyes as deep as star filled nights seek those of last breath bound. Her divine whisper "Come thee hence" as song from lips in aether, her downey cheeks can bare no tears as wings angelic found. Divine ever and tearless hostess to whom all life confess. Ages keeping ear on guard for Rustling of her Satin Dress. bio from 2019: Stephen Sherman was born on the birthday of Walt Whitman. He lives in the Coney Island area of Brooklyn. Stephen Sherman has been writing most of his life including hundreds of poems and several albums of copywritten music. He has been involved in acting, professional singing, production of a video Blog hosted by famed journalist Bill Weinberg and is presently coming to the retirement of a career as a Civil Service Supervisor. For decades he has been a proponent of progressive agendas, civil and woman's rights. Sherman has interests in Hindustani and Carnatic music and dance and Eastern Philosophy. "Do your work, do it well, have fun doing it"