D.L. Pesavento is our September 2009 Selected Poet.

You can email Don at voxmagum@aol.com

Queen of Crows

She's known as Queen of Crows,
shallow-ditch head found
tiara-crowned by busy black beaks.

Alone, so alone, and only crows 
caw my sorrow of no tomorrow; 
no soft lips for mine to kiss, 
nor star by which to make a wish 
nor friend to share a secret with 
nor hand to hold another's in; 
only crows to caw my sorrow.

And on wet, late afternoons, she appears
to lone drivers on lonesome roads,
barefoot, muslin-nightgowned, gazing down
as though looking for something blue,
once fancied and lost; and when she's close,
birds fall without a sound
on the muddy ground around her feet;
thumps on the roof, fog-settled damp bangs,
a sense of little in your hair, moving
in the rear view mirror: parakeet barrette,
and hand claiming what is hers.

Grimmer Fairy Tales

The real world has enough terror for more
than seventy times seven dungeons, dragons,
and damsels in distress; prisons, suicide bombers, Rwanda women,
and serial killers sick in the head.

Nevermind Hansel and Gretel, gumdrop-roofed gingerbread houses,
and kind old ladies offering angelfood cake.
One missing is one too many one can tolerate.
Put on the back burner, witches, covens, and
ovens are opened for special guests.

Pay no attention to Snow White's faux heart
porcine in a box; transplants, cloning, and the
catch-me-if-you-can man, eaten by a fox.
Go colorblind to Little Riding Hood's Red, and
the yellowed teeth she saw.

There's more black asd white than meets the eye
in a disquised grandma's lupine paw.
Some tales are told that frighten, and
so it's only natural to seek refuge in a poem.

Vampire Love

It feeds on the weak
who cannot resist its will,

eclipsing suns of souls
while bodies dream;
a spider on your neck,

blue-vein penetrating;
and you will become it,
salvation breast-pressed 
against its boney chest,
and shoved like a stake
through its cold, black heart.

Dolls

Like wax-museum figures,
they slowly turn their eyes
towards you, as if looking for
answers to their jamais vu.
Here in the upstairs apartment
above the San Francisco Bay
fog rolling in below;
and you explain, you don't know.
You're not a hypnotist who can awaken
manikins with a clap from the hands
that played with them when you, too,
were little; and on hearing a
foghorn's low tuba moan, they
turn inward, deep into themselves:
black eyes rolling back
like sharks on attack,
leaving you with a sense of déjà vu....
you tortured one of them before. And it remembers.

Mobs

Like Coliseum mobs, frenzied by testosterone
hanging pungent in the air, their nostrils flare
like mad little elephant ears. Aroused by hut
hut calls before the huffs and grunts of helmet
head-butts crushing skulls in football,
while those with dilated eyes get thrills at
the auto race, waiting to see’ em hit the wall.
Others enjoy boxers, smashing faces,
jeering at the fallen crawling to the count of 8,
while many savor the hockey check, best of all,
and some get kicks at a bloodied wrestler's brawl.
Still others are pleased enough, seeing girls
throwing elbows in a roller ball free-for-all.
And during all of these, far back in the shadowed stands,
sits a hooded one, who likes to watch cats
dance in the air, just for the fun of it all.

Don Pesavento

D. L. Pesavento, like the Scarecrow of Oz , is a Diplomate of the Universitatis E. Pluribus Unum (not for feats against wicked witches) and a card-carrying member of the Human Race. Recent work appears in Whispers from the Unseen, Think Journal, Full of Crow, and Underground Voices.