Saintly Poetry

The Yard Behind the Veil

I am haunted by another world that lies behind the veil

Of minutes, seconds, hours, days, the scientific scale.


That other world is made of straw and other useless things,

Like lint, used foil, ceiling wax, and fraying balls of strings.


My mind does sometimes wander there to contemplate such styles

As might-have-beens, and never-weres, those undiscovered Isles.


Those sombre Isles are peopled by a most strange race of ghosts

A mishy-mash of faces known, who speak in spoken toasts.


These speeches flow in spits and starts or rivulets and streams,

And convey such information which is never as it seems.


If I try to interject a bit, to clarify a point,

The only thing accomplished is to throw things out of joint.


I mean this quite concretely, though these spirits might seem vague;

If I anger them they’re more than apt to push me towards The Grave.


The Grave he stands a bit apart, and though his face looks grim;

He really is a clever chap, his coat well-cut and prim.


He’ll ask me what my business is and offer me his card.

Politely, I defer, refuse, for I’m not yet his ward.


He’ll bidst me leave, I’d wander midst the haze and fumes and steam

And view the many pretty things, if only eyes could see’em.


I’ve yet to set my mind at ease concerning this strange land,

The less one’s like to spend there, less things tumble out of hand.

But less ones time is infused by the “What”, the “If”, the “And.”