Punkin' verite

The screen, always
Basho's heart behind
ad flashes, dismissed
the screen says nothing
I type, filling a meager
bit, minuscule cyber
never blank yet expanding
What I draw in my mind
comes out words, tint
the font it's still lays there.

Punkin' burning

For days after the lesson
I accused to random eye rolling
disbelief or "Child please!"
Much learning is wasted,
instincts undeveloped
Bur I had my suspicions

So silently judged awaiting
the moon wrought menace
none came witches stayed
becoming more so, until
it was I who left, childhood's
coven, before my sacrifice

Punkin' drives

Any other way, one whole plot
taken, not minding but not really
caring, thus the wrong impression.

Lightly etched, a clever friend dangles
delight, moon lit or by candle, any very
respected barely peeking through.

Varying stories, oft told easily worn
essential to privacy, not to get in the way
but they never see that. Never.

Never give away: suggest or another
emotive word, the ultimate crime
the twist, psychological in hindsight.

Punkin' takes a ride

In winter quarters
shifting old tenting the detective
gets lucky? In private please.

She shares her fears, he leaves,
she dies. Death in service
of the plot. What I know
could be dangerous.

Oh Natasha!
Never rest until he's seen her,
what has it to do with you?
Not one corpse but two. I can count.

The circus turned upside down.
The old man at full blast -
Slams phone down. Hidden
somewhere, found by someone
else. Something in common.

Ah, Natasha! Why
is it dangerous? Let's make a bolt
for it. Not only from the knife
thrower but a would be clown,
a blood red midget, a slut and
virginal - she was right, poor kid.

A knife
that kills is buried with the victim.
Which leaves the rest of the set