IM
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Poem
      of
      the
     
     
      Night
     
    
   
   
    
     
      At
      the
      silent
      time,
     
    

    
     
      in
      the
      middle
      of
      the
      night
     
     
      My
      mind
      grows
      wings
     
     
      and
      takes
      flight
     
    

    
     
      It
      flutters
      about
     
    

    
     
      like
      a
      decrepit
      bat
     
     
      Scurrying
      over
     
    

    
     
      This
      and
      that
     
    

    
     
      Picking
      old
      scabs
     
     
      Uncovering
      old
      fears
     
     
      That
      had
      laid
      dormant
     
     
      all
      these
      years
     
    

    
     
      I
      don’t
      know
      why
     
    

    
     
      Night
      gives
      it
      this
      power
     
     
      To
      make
      my
      soul
     
    

    
     
      Shiver
      and
      cower
     
    

    
     
      But
      I
      know
      when
      J
      sit
     
     
      And
      I
      tap
      at
      these
      keys
     
     
      It
      puts
      my
      mind
     
    

    
     
      A
      little
      at
      ease.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      By
      Mike
      Bertrand
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Night
      Noises
     
    
   
   
    
     
      the
      see-saw
      siren
      of
      the
      drive
     
     
      is
      like
      the
      breath
      of
      some
      waiting
      creature
     
     
      as
      |
      sit
      and
      tap
      out
      my
      dreams
     
    
   
   
    
     
      _
      The
      whine
      of
      the
      refrigerator’s
      contradictory
     
     
      radiator
     
    

    
     
      mixes
      with
      this
      whine
     
    

    
     
      in
      an
      eerie
      harmony
     
    
   
   
    
     
      the
      steady
      hiss
      of
      the
      house’s
      watery
      blood
     
     
      adds
      its
      subtle
      voice
      to
      the
      night’s
      mysteries
     
     
      as
      an
      alien
      undertone
     
    
   
   
    
     
      and
      underneath
      it
      all,
      the
      murmur
      ofa
      television
     
     
      forsaken
      for
      the
      easier
      comfort
      of
      slumber
     
     
      makes
      the
      noises...human
     
    
   
   
    
     
      By
      Mike
      Bertrand
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Pseudopsalms
     
    
   
   
    
     
      As
      I
      lay
      me
      down
      to
      sleep,
     
    

    
     
      I
      pray
      that
      God
      is
      not
      a
      creep.
     
    

    
     
      If
      I
      should
      die
      before
      I
      wake,
      Then
      is
      it
      for
      hell,
     
     
      or
      heaven’s
      sake?
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      Lord
      is
      my
      shepard,
      I
      shall
      not
      think
     
     
      He
      maketh
      me
      to
      profess
      His
      will
      on
      green
     
     
      Atheists
     
    
   
   
    
     
      A
      drop
      of
      blood,
      Burning-bush
      red
     
     
      Dripped
      from
      little
      Susie’s
      head
     
     
      From
      where
      her
      Daddy’s
      crucifix
     
     
      Had
      given
      Susie
      seven
      licks
     
    

    
     
      Too
      many,
      for
      by
      the
      third
      one
     
     
      Little
      Susie’s
      life
      was
      gone
     
    

    
     
      For
      little
      Susie,
      she
      had
      dared
     
    

    
     
      To
      offer
      in
      her
      tiny
      prayers
     
    

    
     
      A
      prayer
      for
      those
      who
      had
      no
      faith
     
     
      Thus
      causing
      God
      much
      disgrace
     
     
      So
      it
      was
      God,
      not
      dad,
      who
      commanded
     
     
      That
      he
      should
      be
      so
      heavy-handed
     
     
      If
      you
      find
      all
      this
      shocking,
      well
     
    

    
     
      I
      guess
      you’ll
      have
      to
      go
      to
      Hell.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      By
      Mike
      Bertrand
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
     
     
      Fairweather
     
     
      Friend
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      fell
      in
      that
      trap
      again,
     
    

    
     
      into
      that
      old
      cliche
      where
      they
      say,
     
    

    
     
      ‘‘if
      you
      trust,
      you’ll
      be
      deceived’’...
     
    

    
     
      Because
      the
      fairweather
      friend
      has
      many
      faces.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      And
      like
      a
      game
      of
      Russian
      Roulette,
     
    

    
     
      you
      can
      only
      guess
      when
      the
      next
      face
      will
      pop
     
     
      up
     
    

    
     
      and
      the
      one
      you’ve
      trusted
      will
      turn
      on
      you
     
     
      and
      use
      your
      trust
      to
      hurt
      and
      deceive.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Anonymous
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Make
      Lava,
     
     
      Not
      War
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Fiery
      ideas
      boil
      to
      the
      surface
      of
      my
      mind
     
     
      and
      melt
      onto
      paper.
     
    

    
     
      Phrases
      forged
      in
      flame
     
    

    
     
      flow
      onto
      the
      page.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Like
      Pompeii’s
      poor
      plebeians
     
     
      engulfed
      in
      the
      eruption,
     
    

    
     
      The
      ideas
      settle
      like
      ashes
     
     
      into
      gray
      lines
      of
      type
     
    
   
   
    
     
      And
      the
      statues
      of
      my
      feelings
     
     
      Stand
      petrified
      for
      the
      generations.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      SFM
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Gaea's
     
     
      Slumber
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      sun’s
      final
      fingers
      scratch
      the
      yawning
     
     
      Earth
     
    

    
     
      Parades
      of
      snow-white
      floats
      clouding
      sky
     
     
      Wondering
      eyes
      plumb
      upper
      depths
     
     
      Questing
      the
      glow
      gone
      by
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Shuffling
      feet
      disturb
      mass
      graves
     
     
      Leafy
      corpses
      rustling
      mutely
     
     
      Mourning
      maples
      claw
      cold
      air
     
     
      Seeking
      their
      children
      lost
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Yellowing
      cornstalks
      cast
      long
      shadows
     
     
      Crow-curbing
      counterfeits
      still
      stand
      by
     
     
      Straw
      arms
      spread
      like
      a
      martyr’s
      limbs
     
     
      Obscuring
      the
      sun’s
      closing
      eye
     
    
   
   
    
     
      And
      winter’s
      goblins
      lurk
      in
      the
      giantess’s
     
     
      shadow
     
     
      Honing
      their
      blades
      of
      frost
     
    
   
   
    
     
      SFM
     
     
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