Whiskey Bottles or The Men in Rags

With twisted hats

And wrinkled coats,

In hobos hands

They come atote.

Whiskey bottles

Clothed in paper bags,

The men in rags

Stand shivering.

_____________

The Old Green Lady

An old rock wall

With an iron gate.

I pass on through

Then hesitate.

Aged headstones

Covered with moss.

Eerily do I . . .

. . . Come across.

The cool night fog

Hangs damp and still.

I wonder what’s

upon that hill.

A large oak tree

Moon lit yet shady.

Gives refuge to
the Old Green Lady

Her clothes are ragged

Tattered and torn.

And on her feet

Leather boots are worn.

A black knit shawl

Hung over her shoulder.

For as night time wanes,

The air grows colder.

Rising slowly . . . 

. . . As she dances.

She fades into

The twisted branches.

A scarier site

I’ve yet to see.

That Old Green Lady

Has frightened me.

Anxious though

And tempting fate. 

I’ll return tomorrow

Lest I be late.

Would you care to join me?

Jon Contrastano writes, “Just looking for comments on my writing.” He may be contacted at johncontrastano@sbcglobal.net