Vol.1, No.5 •
            November 2007


            
 


            
Poems by Robert Cameron
            Hazelton


            


            Autumn Roses Smell Sweetest

            
She wore a rose of vermilion

            to the Autumn Cotillion

            on a gown of white satin and lace.

            
The stars stood at muster

            their brilliance lackluster

            compared to the glow on her face.

            
Fine gents were all courting,

            most handsomely sporting

            bright plumage painstakingly preened.

            
Much more than one suitor

            quite boldly pursued her,

            we zealously danced and careened.

            
Her beauty unnerving

            my knees just kept swerving

            though I tried to appear nonchalant.

            
A boy sans finesse,

            by the Maker's largess

            this angel saw me as gallant.

            
She wore a rose of vermilion

            to the Autumn Cotillion

            on a gown of white satin and lace.

            
Who'd have guessed I 

            would be the luckiest guy

            and walk with her out of that place.

            

            
Colder Than A Witch's What

            
Why is a witch's (you know) cold?

            From riding a broom in the midnight air

            or because she has no one to hold?

            Maybe one look gives quite a scare

            halting those who might feel bold

            enough to show they really care.

            Perhaps she is just terribly old

            and suffering from deep despair

            because when loosed they unfold

            lower than mercury by compare.

            

            
Fair

            
"Come one, come all!" the huckster
            cried

            "See the marvel here inside

            this little tent I've pitched for you

            made from ancient dragon hide.

            
Bring your courage, don't be shy

            I guarantee it will defy

            everything you thought you knew,

            just one greenback to get by!".

            
I watched him go on for a while,

            beheld the fear behind his smile,

            guilty eyes cast furtively

            towards a mocking, mute turnstile.

            
Then suddenly he turned my way

            as no one else saw fit to stay,

            his weary voice mechanically

            asking, "Well sir, whatta ya say?".

            
So, I dug out the required fee

            which was quickly snatched, then he

            pushed me through, saying with a grin,

            "Try to be quiet, it spooks easily."

            
I briefly glimpsed at his sad attempt

            to portray a myth in that pen, unkempt

            as it was - the saggy horse with fake horn

            now oblivious to further contempt.

            
He gave me a wink as I went on my way.

            Did I feel cheated? Not one stitch!

            It's not always product for which we pay

            sometimes the value is in the pitch.

            

            
Seasoning

            
The August moon is waning,

            a somber silver glow

            that softens the remaining

            moments ere you go.

            
I see the solstice in your eyes

            a subject beyond broaching,

            and whisper bittersweet goodbyes

            with autumn fast approaching.