Two Poems
Jon Cone


Batten down the hat,
he'd say that, laugh.
We hid in the hay loft.
And where's my cough?

His cane preceding,
that old heart surgeon
adrift on the gravel drive.
The lawn needs cutting.

Nowadays if you lurk
you need a cell phone
to locate your sack,
apply its hammock.


It be desperate half-aft,
with keel horn cinched
to the grim noire fat.

Wind high up,
wave heave and a vast.

All dented pluck huts,
poor wicker and hints.
She bayward limps.

No heaven or hell too soon.
No place sere enough.
For those Souls of Darkness Fell.