Poetry

Bureaucratic Showdown

The bell would chime.

Ding.

Ding.

That was the time.

Ding.

Ding.

“High noon,” he’d said.

Ding.

Ding.

“I’ll shoot ya’ dead!”

Ding.

Ding.

And to the street . . .

Ding.

Ding.

The two did meet.

Ding.

. . .

The silent bell

. . .

an anxious hell.

. . .

They would find soon

. . .

it wasn’t noon

. . .

a narrow escape

. . .

thanks to red-tape

. . .

Poetry

The Consequence of Words

The morning bells

the mourning bells

the bells at noon and night

they clamor on

in varied song

of sadness and delight

Such heavy hands

conduct those bands

of all the chimes that sung

just one mistake

that one could make–

those bells can’t be unrung