"Fee-Fie-Foe-Fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman!
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones
To make my bread!"

The war stomps in
on large booted feet
sits at the table
and eats the bread
made of the bones
of our families.

And when the bread is gone,
a giant's hand
reaches down to harvest
more men
for bones
for bread.

Won't somebody steal
his goose that lays golden eggs?
Won't someone empty
the bags of gold he counts?
Won't somebody silence the harp
that sings him to sleep?

Oh, for a handful
of magic beans
to climb into that
elevated realm
of the giant
that eats the bones
of honest men
for bread.

©E. Howe Nov 21, 2003

For Dylan, regarding "Glass Onion";

No, it's not a piece of crap.
I haven't seen what else you've done,
this is new,
this is fresh.

Of course, all poems are better next time.

Who was it,
said:
'poems are never completed
only abandoned'
?
©E. Howe Nov 21, 2003

For V. who only has flying dreams when he goes to bed wearing a girl's bedtime clothing:

I envy you your
flying dreams
you seem to rise above
be exempt from
not only the law
of gravity
but your gravitas
sheilds you from
most hostile projections.

Was the man that groped you
in flight
flying as well?

or did his hands
carpe diem
as you glided past?

was he seeking to hold you back
or be pulled along
in your pink lace wake?

I go to bed in my skin
and sometimes
sweetpants and socks

I have not dreamed of flying
in far too long.

Can I borrow a negligee?

©E. Howe Nov 18, 2003