Eagle’s End

by Eric G.Muller

circling down to earth
the Eagle lands in a hole
up on a wide hill
with sunk head he folds his wings
and waits for the storm to come

water fills the grave
loose earth caves in and buries
the feathery egg
freed, he pierces through the rage
and spreads his cry to the stars

next day in the sun
around the tomb of wet mud
many have gathered
flocks of different feathers
with folded wings, remembering

at the dawn of dusk
the hill rises up as one
old songs sung new to the world

The Honey-Hag

The wizened Cretan widow
dressed in well-worn black
smiled with patterned wrinkles
which coiled all the way back
to the Minoan Snake Goddess

She broke off two chunks
of flat braided bread – warm
insisting we taste the sweetness
right there and then

and as we chewed
with our nodding jaws
we sank into
a sleepy zone
of milk and honey

giving new meaning
to the term – breaking bread

left helpless we bought
the embroidered tablecloth
as the honey-hag chuckled
sending her tongued wrinkles
slithering down to her hands

as she tucked away the coins

Garden Deal

Never let the palmed shuffle go too wild while
flipping through yellowed notepads where
abandoned gardens let hosepipe philosophy grow amongst
tall weeds that trip the nether-mind’s best intentions.

It only releases the pierce-eyed detective who
tours the lasting cliffs of tacked mugshots
across shiny walls and florescent fatigue
as he joins clues with fat black sharpies

Spreading the insects’ dissected sentences throughout
the precinct’s inner sanctum where the manhunt
takes on ritual significance, until a choreographed dance
along the contours of symbolic scrawls breaks through the muck

Too often we’re fooled to think we’ve found
the rare fruit, fantasizing how the squeezed juice
flits across our animal tongues, in everlasting
hope-drops that wet our desire for more

But burns across the perennial red carpet
igniting the papillae into crumbling pillars
crushed to sand in night’s frozen pockets
to sift through time’s ticking fingers

As we reminisce how sweet
the other’s flesh tasted
when the buds still stood supple and guilt free
while we thrilled your way out of Eden

Starved and always aching for the fruit we stole
forgetting that freedom’s crop lies in the
spit-in-the-palm deal between hunter and hunted
to go at it together – to tend that garden for all

Eric G. Muller teaches literature and drama at the Hawthorne Valley High School in New York. He is a founding member of the Alkion Center and the director of the education department. He has written two novels, Rites of Rock (Adonis Press 2005) and Meet Me at the Met (Plain View Press, 2010), as well as a collection of poetry, Coffee on the Piano for You (Adonis Press, 2008). Poetry, articles and short stories have appeared in various journals, anthologies and magazines. www.ericmuller.com