Tag Archives: post apocalypse

Gehenna or Eden

It is spring. Still cool in the mornings. Warm days.

She sits in a swing, in a never completed park.

No grass. No paved tracks. No transplanted trees.

Just the little playground.


She thinks she is 17 now. Her birthday is in mid-March.

It might be April by now, though she doesn’t know for certain.

The war came. The fires came. The silence came.

She sits in a swing, and waits for him.


The wind was sewn, and the whirlwinds came a’reaping.

She has been alone for a year. She is always tired. Often hungry.

Her dreams are filled with terrors and wonders.

She wonders if she is a prophet for the remnant.


She knows he is following close behind. Is a wary? Is he waiting?

The silence that came after the fires has been the worst. No human voices.

All the batteries are dead. No way to hear music even.

She longs to speak, and to hear, and to touch.


She sits in the swing, waiting. She remembers her childhood.

She was swaddled and innocent, while the world was burning.

She knew not what was coming, but it came, and it took her too.

She remembered trying to swing as he as she could, laughing.


The boy, has been following her, and she hears him, out of sight.

She has much to fear from an unknown male, but she is lonely.

He is no older than she. Most likely just as tired, and hungry, and lonely.

Adam and Eve in Gehenna instead of Eden.


She looks up. There he is. They lock eyes. She smiles.

He walks to her, unsure, as if he’s afraid of spooking her.

She stays in the swing, and watches him, heart racing.

Will he kiss her cheek, or slit her throat? Is he a friend?


He goes to the swing beside her, and sits down.

It is spring. The morning is cool. Warm days.

The silence is perhaps broken now, voices speaking.

Maybe it’s a crack in all this death, life coming back.


Truest Prayers

On our way to Rochester for the summer.
We camped along the cold, dark river.
She sits by the water, praying and muttering.

Spring is starting to green the cold and dead.
We made it through another winter by the sea.
Fire and warmth, human touch, truest prayers.

A priestess will bless us, sanctify our dreams.
Rochester, where the angels dwell in caves.
Our motorbike will make it there once more.

The cold, dark river is answering her curses.
Two more days ride to the ancient forests.
That we’ll make it together, prayer answered.

All that can be hoped for in these winters.

It Snows In September

It snows in September,

ashen and gray on the trees

that still bear their leaves,

all the kisses I cannot remember.

Alone in the old farmhouse,

mostly dreaming away on a thin bed,

the angel who was never ever wed,

patron martyr’s cream blouse.

A dark women stands in the distance.

I stay in the basement to escape her,

and all of hell that wallows in molded fur,

the lining of her coat, snarling, mute persistence.

In the basement, the dark, tomb of the world,

I can give out candies, soft gummies, to repent.

My patron martyr, my saint, I know not where she went.

The flag of blasphemy and tenderness unfurled.


Oh it’s cold, it must be the end of October.

The leaves are red, the plants have wilted,

and I shiver with you, my precious retriever,

to keep me company, keep me warm, sane.

The men are maggots, feeding on the corpse

of the world and all we ever managed to build.

You, buddy, and my daddy’s AR-15, to keep them

back, and my legs to get away. I run like the wind.

Men take anything they can, anyway they can.

You, buddy, the only male I trust, hiding with me.

These forests that were Eden when I was young.

Will they keep me safe now, hide me away now?

You and me, buddy, hiding in this barn tonight.

Still hay inside, soft and sheltering, better than the ground.

I know the sun and the stars and how to follow.

The angels in the sky, to lead me somewhere better.

Where men aren’t beasts. Where I can sleep innocent.

Libraries Are Solace

The high school library is ours.

The hallways and classrooms

are left to the ghosts of our youth.

We spoon on a couch in the librarian’s

office, with the sleeping bag, comforters,

we brought from our homes, when the end came.

The sky is grey, end of November, cold is here,

and our city burned and the world kept on,

and we took solace among the pages and tales.

Stories we loved, and study halls and lunch periods

spent writing and reading and dreaming, finding joy

and love when the first bright blue of spring came.

The world spins as our world ends, as all fades away.

We make a world in the only place that ever was ours.

We hide among the wisdom none of the others want.

I tell you tales, whispered in your ear at night,

of an aging knight and a quest for the grail,

and the letters he wrote home to his impossible love.

And the library has it’s own ghosts at night,

the starlight through the windows by the ceiling,

and fires a million light years away are silver sweetness.

The classrooms we leave to gather dust, and the hallways

are too full of our regrets when we thought our dreams

might end up coming true.

Just us and the pages and tales and wisdom no looter wants.

Just us and canned stew on a butane stove, and our dreams,

and the escape of each other’s warmth in the cold, cold night.

Sky Without Eyes

The roof of the house had a hole blasted out of it, beneath which we sleep, the two of us forced into a shared sleeping bag.

I held her tighter still in my arms, pressing her warmth against me.

My face is buried in her black curls that have gone unwashed so long. No longer is their the sweet smell of strawberry shampoo lingering in them.

Still it smells sweet to me.

The stars were clouds of whiteness in the stark darkness. The moon was hiding it’s face behind a veil of passing clouds.

She squeezes my hands in hers, murmurs secrets, whispers the name of God that had passed from all knowing.

The stars are not angels watching, but they are all that light us now.

The world man built is wiped clean. The cities empty. The sky without eyes.

We sleep in this house with it’s blasted roof, on a hard, uncarpeted floor. Drifting in and out of dreams. We hold to tight to each other, making sure each is still there when we wake.

Dreams of light and a garden and healing waters.

We dream of a child coming to us.

Two of us make one. Two made one make something new.

The child is dreaming even before coming to us.

The seed is planted, shall it grow?

High in the plains we’ve found a place to hide, a kind of Eden among the tall grasses and harsh hills and endless winds that blow through us like we were ghosts and not at all flesh.

If the child comes, faceless and new and too soon filled with sorrows, will it be like us, lost ones unsure and broken?

Is failure the soul of flesh?

Will there be another waiting for him? Will the flesh of humans fall away?

Me and her, in this house with it’s blasted roof, sleeping beneath the soft light of the stars, hold onto to life, and to the dream of something good.

The garden is ever and always out of reach.

Cold Air In August (Three Years Now)

The sky is always grey like cigarette ashes,
> the sunlight dim, dirty and weak through
> the
cold air. Cold air in August, three years now.
> They set off the bomb, and we went to sleep instead of burning.
> So little grows, but I scratch out a little,
> just to stay here in the dark, the fire gone,
> the
cold when she’s one of the lost in DC.
> They set off the bomb, and they are dead, nobodies are here.
> In my worn down trailer home, with a few books and idols,
> the bed where I dream of her every night, dream of California
> before the war, us running in blue waves, absolutely free.
> They set off the bomb, and took our dreams, left us with bones.
> In the dark, without stars, only a masked and distant moon,
> I hear a coyote howl, for the first time since the war, the bombs,
> and think maybe something will come after, something good.

Breathing Ghost

Mach 1 Mustang up the two lane highway, heading north.
Holding on to the hope of her at my side for all it’s worth.
New England is golden and bleeding red in Autumn,
the bleeding out of the green as the leaves fall in the rain.
How much farther can I go before all the hope is lost.

The sun is dim and a watered down golden hue.
The cold is in the air, biting my skin, when I sleep
on the side of the highway, my jacket thin and useless.
I’ll lose fuel before Rochester I know, wear down my shoes.
Will she be there when I come walking in like a living ghost?

It’s all spread into darkness and loss and a loss at what to do.
She was in Rochester when the lights when out and hope faded.
Is she still there? I push the car harder and harder to New York.
I’ve got to find her again, I’ve got to have her at my side in Winter.
I’m walking dead, a breathing ghost, if she’s not there, waiting for me.

Mother and Son

The jets have stopped screaming overhead.

               The lights are out. The cars are all still.

               It’s just us, mother and son, sitting by the fire.

               I tell him stories. I kiss his head. The world is over.


               Just a little house on a suburban street. No notice.

               Just me and my son, and I make up games and rhymes,

               And I know the song that will quiet him to sleep, to dream,

               Dream of a world perfect and whole, not like here.


               I smile and sing for him, keep him calm, but The Devil comes.

               So little food or water. So little time I can keep him sweet.

               Soon we’ll have to go into this dead world. What’s out there?

               Will he grow to be like them? The men who burned the world?


               I hold him close to me, as he sleeps, as I watch the fire.

               He is in the Eden in his mind, his guileless, innocent dreams.

               The fire kept us warm but we burned ourselves to keep it going.

               I kiss his head. Nothing good stays. And the world is waiting out there.

Without The Touch

A year without sun. Without the touch of another.

               I sleep, keep the lights out, dream of unspoiled paradise.

               The war came. The world burned. It’s all gone.


               There’s a calendar. Pretty women on the beach.

               The blue tropical waters. The warmth of the flesh.

               My heart still races. They’re all gone.


               I dream of my favorite. We swim and play in the waves.

               We make love beneath the stars. We are free of the past.

               I wake up crying. I’ll never see another person again.


               The war came. The world burned. It’s all gone.