Halloween Candy

Trick or treat, time to eat
Fill my bag with something sweet
Weighted on the sugar side
With mono- and diglyceride
BHT preserves with letter
The artificial-er, the better
Processed cocoa, lecithin
Citric acid, albumen
A witch’s brew with bubbly boil
Partly hydrogenated oil
Caloric cacophony, I can’t wait
For dextrin and sodium acetate
Corn syrup makes me come alive
FDC Yellow #5
My taste buds nearly jump the tracks
For dextrose and carnauba wax
I may be stunted, I may be shorty
But I can’t quit Red #40
Potassium sorbate makes me smile
And malic acid gives me style
The flavor is too high to rate
With glyceryl monostearate
So let’s hit the street, it’s time to march
In quest of modified food starch!

-Weylan Deaver


Dark cloud in flight
By fading light
Emerge from cave
With sonar wave
Faces furry
Flying flurry
Night wing flap by
Bug trap in sky
Coil spring unwound
Above the ground
Hover at flower
The witching hour
Nose in nose out
Now pollen snout
Your sun is moon
Midnight is noon
Snooze upside down
Reclusive clown
That toothy grin
That see-through skin
You earn the nod
For straight up odd
Yet still we fear
To see you near
Airborne joker
Thanks, Bram Stoker.

–Weylan Deaver

The End Unmeasured

Seven times his tired feet stumbled,
as many times he hefted body erect,
he pushed himself to step again forward.

Unsteady, onward, stumbling he went,
but goal was always large in sight,
he walked though tired and wavered not.

To the left and right defeated souls
lay crying in their loss of spirit,
their legs refusing to endure the pain.

The end unmeasured, speed not required,
the race might end at any moment,
the movers winners all declared.


The Raging Pachyderm

The wild and raging Pachyderm
Burned down the House, from roof to floor;
Attacked the ravaged Town, in turn,
Where reigned the foolish Mule before.

In flames, the flunkies and also-rans
Kiss Pachy’s loud and massive trunk;
He leads his fawning, adoring fans,
To ruin, undisciplined and drunk.

In his wake, he leaves destruction,
No soul his verbal rampage spares;
The Party followed his seduction,
To folly’s fall they now are heirs.



See the field of flowers,
Rising from the ground?
Silent, snow-white flowers.
Steady, sad, and sound.
By hundreds they bloom
And watered by blood.
Some grow too soon,
All lost in time’s flood.
They grow for the dead.
A substitute grace
Of sacrifice, love,
And a beloved, missed face.
Like Flanders they cry,
“Look on us and see!
We are the reason
You smile and are free.”
Please don’t forget them
Don’t tread the field blind
Stop to see and smell them
Keep these flowers in mind
Simple surrealism,
They are born of death,
Courage, heroism,
and vows to protect.
Set in a city
Of weak, troubled men,
This graveyard of honor,
White-dressed, recommends
A bravery steep,
A price heavy paid,
Patriotism deep,
And sacrifice made.
Look at the flowers,
How fragile they are.
Each one’s a whisper
Of a country’s scars.
Do they remind us,
Or will they wilt,
No longer define us?
Will we let rust the hilt?
Remember the white flowers
Forever they’ll stand
As symbols of strength
Dear-bought gifts to our land.

–Lacey Deaver