Monday, May 30, 2011



A papillon with the mourning cloak
bodes grief; leave it free to flit from
whence it came to where it goes.

Capture it, and you become a gaoler
of the ghost it carries from unknown
gardens, uncharted lanes, lost zones:

Mark how it circled you thrice before
alighting on your chair not your tea cup
where it is moist and comfortable.

Let it leave its yet undelivered
message: a brew of auguries and omens
from the cocoons of the netherworld.

Do I scare you with this ghoulish rant?
Or shall I leave you to scare yourself
with your own disembodied yearnings? 

Ah, but beware my morning porch friend,
beauty, wherever you find it, is an omen.

—Albert B. Casuga

Poetic PromptA mourning cloak butterfly circles the porch and yard three times, going behind my chair, including me in whatever it means to outline. Dave Bonta, Morning Porch, 05-28-11

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