a fantasy of ancients



three minor keys of dusty bones
appear from gray blue smoke;
they windmill arms akimbo
around a mound of castoff rags;
they growl shriek howl,
sideways sashay with cramp-ed slides

they antic dance and mimic bow;
they sack the piled rejection
of worn sole shoes and mismatched socks,
of grime stained  pants and ragged shirts,
a wooden leg, a glass cracked eye,
red wig…stained bandage stash

into full fathom coats and rubber boots
they stuff their loot as if it were all treasure
to disappear as limitless and formless as its start
as warmth appearance healing comfort; then
they disappear into a wisp-ed trailing fog,
into a fantasy of ancients…into a laughter

Bonnie Marshall

Artist: Joseph Beuys
“Witches Spitting Fire” 1959

extended metaphor…a life flight

pilot child kaye bishop

we take off and we land
our necessity of days
take on…take off into
the charting of our years
on routes long-established
by others…by ourselves

and we fly passengers…
are attendant to their needs
accordingly in first class…
business…coach…we transport
parcels luggage mail…and we tank
energy to fuel them safely into sky

and we accumulate and jettison desire
not to weigh us heavy into earth…
not to limit soar…not to impair
workings of our parts and send us
crashing into mountains…sinking
into seas…barely reaching shores
we’ve charted on our maps and
lifted to in dreams


Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Kaye Bishop

chanting arid windsong

drought fred williams


straw dry …drought crack

riverbed flakes skin…darkens

rain forced to fresh mud wash


skyed sparks stream static trace

north poled…arched by fingertips

and… moss gleams phosphorescent


geometric moonbeams drift listless

up and down and left and right,

scrape pockets in the night


islands slip their moorings…form

new continents of Latin mass for

chanting arid windsong


Bonnie Marshall

Artwork by Fred Williams