Death of the Prince

A Word on the Death of the Prince of Thieves—
Robin of Locksley, Robin Hood,
Whose arrows fled, whose arm, bled,
Let out by the Prioress of Kirklees.
“Bury me where my arrow falls”
Were his supposed last words.
His grave lies, alone, caged, in the woods
On private grounds, touched only by birds.
His death was betrayal by a cousin—
And her unfriendly ghost lurks there by his grave,
Or so the story goes—
The darkly-clad figure glides toward visitors,
Eyes glowing red and teeth bared,
And the only ones who see the ghosts,
The only ones who see the grave,
Are trespassers, outlaws like Robin Hood.

Futuristic Body/Visionary Mind

“Isn’t that how you pictured it?”
Sketch lines crossing arteries and veins
Subway systems of the body, of the City of the Soul
The structures within,
leading away into the years of innovation,
tangled messes of interconnected lines
running all through your stomach,
the congested traffic of urban living,
within you.
He gazes back at me, over the morning paper,
Silently shakes his head.
“Are you feeling alright? I thought…the eggs were a little off.”
But I don’t reply—
My mind is away and dreaming,
Of moving sidewalks, of planetary living on other worlds,
Of terra-formed conquests and the energy of the Earth and sky—
Of Elon Musk’s genius spaceman plans—
Of breakfast on Mars.

What They Came For

Featherfluster
Chaos uncontrolled,
The pigeons descend/ascend
Cover the land in gray
A fowl fog hiding
A sunny day
They—don’t care much about the weather—
They just came for the food.

The Brown Glove

This is the glove—
The one found at the scene of the crime
Note the cold snow,
The nails that came out of our hands
This is the glove
That the government used to strangle its people—
Forced them to work for or live off of that state cheese
Taxed the breath out of them
Then, mockingly, stole their money and threw it
Into a Bullet Train to Nowhere—
In short, they took the gloves off—
They’d been off for quite some time.

Waiting on a Black Train

They knew his name, and knew he was trouble when he rolled into town, though—
The townsfolk never could seem to put a finger on why
But they called him Dusty, and he spun his old revolver and shot,
And that shot rang out like a cannon blast

The Beast ran off into the sunset like it always did, red eyes glaring,
Leaving trails of blood, red poppies, sometimes rubies
And the train followed them both: Death, final, bound by fate?

Dusty and the train rolled into town on the same evening, and he came and went,
Never staying more than a day,
The train took him here, and then carried him away
And rumors floated through the saloon, that Dusty was a time-traveler,
Come to warn them of impending doom, the train, his chariot to other times, other worlds—

The Beast ran off into the sunset like it always did, red eyes glaring,
Leaving trails of blood, red poppies, sometimes rubies
And the train followed them both: Death, final, bound by fate?

Why on Earth did he follow the Beast, and who, in the end, would win?
Dusty outran the train of Death, and the Beast outran Dusty, who was Death,
And all folks wore the Masque of Death, when Dusty rolled into town
But now, he stopped, they stopped, and all were
Waiting on a black train.

***

“Death of the Prince,” “Futuristic Body/Visionary Mind,” and “Waiting on a Black Train” are excerpts from Leslie D. Soule’s new poetry chapbook, My Mentor, Death. You can purchase the book from Terror House Press here.

My Mentor Death