Ross Mackay Poems

The shimmer of the morning cold
seemed to stroke its fingers across
my late morning dream.
You turned towards me,
...

The dust bowl of my poisoned breath
The tepid low narcotic test
The tempered brain falls from the nest
The captive tied a King in jest
...

Our play is made up of four different stories,
laid in different periods of history,
each with its own set of characters
...

Cario, Cario, Cario
...

Where way down east,
broken blossoms in her hair,
in the birth of a nation,
the intolerance in her stare-
...

- -Where She Watches Over Babylon- -
...

The night will bite like fingers on an egg,
leave a tang on the tongue like old coffee.
The holy neophyte with cat like tread
and wading through the elm heartwood
...

She whithers in the wind,
she crumbles in my hand.
I set the table for Sunday dinner,
just for myself, no one else was coming.
...

The Mother

Don't let go, or I'll be alone in my age-
tripping hither, tripping thither...
...