Advice forTeuta the Queen

You can frogmarch young romans tied to a chick mad for all things caudal
 (as the young & stupid are), too lingual for their own good; or

fly on your lembos prow forward to lesbos, a young bitter Antoninus on
  your scent, where you'd have lain with spumy chin in the sand

(chin and spit on open sand!);  and if you'd stayed home, enough millet and
  panic galore would certainly dry up all imagination and pity in you

Don't be seduced into theft of cattle and gold and a cute naked roman celt--
   stay at a darling lake retreat, laying in  torcs, anklets and the rest,

Try rearing sires of yours to read lives instead of turning lewd, sly, laconic
   Be a best friend rather than guest-friend, and hide one breast

Qandeel

And nothing I can do about it--
  late evening sun
 

Ode to some of the Gage Park dead

Gage Park

I recently discovered that the grounds of Gage Park sadly conceal hundreds of unmarked graves that still remain, to this day (after only the tombs had been cleared to make room for the prosperous Victorian Gage family). The dead here have really no choice but to speak to the people above, and if they do it will have to be from the feet up. There's no other way of knowing that they're there. And if communication were recorded in the form of a poem, a poem's rhyme and rhythm must reflect that eerie footfall.

I should like to imagine that they will whisper to me, too. Perhaps just one of them, the youngest and most vulnerable, still clutching somebody's swollen hand. I'll take a guide with me, some local historian with map, just to be safe. I believe we bear the dead (even the pre-Confederation dead!) best singly and in cooperation. It's perhaps how we all will die...

____________________

Perhaps below me here was the veiny hand that'd sadly stiffened like
 a sodden turnip farmer's thumb,

quite likely a choleraic child's last hold on life; and a shape of unaired
  flounces of she who's lain near him,

or soiled hips, i.e. of an overwrought mam, who did not die of drink-
  it's these stirring below me in the Park

(and not so much either as a carved letter tooled skilfully to look like
   angel lips or something very uncial)

I think I'll wade among more than one of the many hundreds blurred &
  stinking like the sodden, even in grief

(for what Hamiltonian in pre-Confederation woods wouldn't have been)
  Of those sinking below below below are:

the shrill blowsy dress and dad who had also been lain rather pat, and,
  a child dead, mud-shaped (not just a shape)
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