Vera Charline Wareham

Charline considers herself a poet and an artist and a seeker of truth, and has never related her value to what she does for a living, 
which has been an array of things: from carpenter’s helper in the strength of her youth, to belly dancer for her own balloon delivery business, 
to assembly line work and then coordinator of communications with Motorola – to name a few.  She is a native Texan, but loves to travel, 
enjoying the outdoors and adventure. Living rather secluded in the Texas woods for the past fifteen years, she holds dear her solitude and time for 
reflection. On the balance, she also enjoys meeting new people and experiencing new things and ideas, with her solitary escape always waiting for 
her when she needs it. Her writing and photographic art have been sold and shown sporadically throughout America – primarily through the internet, 
because of her reclusive qualities. At present this artist/author is working on a book tentatively to be called Patchwork Faces of the Moon. 
Charline is also web master of four sites, the first and very massive site is called Through My Window.







 

Medicine Show Barker

Revoked. Repulsed. Renewed. Reviewed.
I bring to you, fellow travelers
through this troubled time we live in
a potion strong and good to bring
all manner of things
you’ve only
dreamed.

Just dip your fancy feather quill
into this bottle I show here
and the readers of your magic words
will come and buy what ‘ere you sell
and pay just what they’re told.
It heals your body and your mind
don’t think about your soul.

Your soul is saved, once you agree
to buy the medicine I deal.
It is a skill I have with wills.
I offer freely to you all
no matter what the cost or loss
Your words will charge
admission.




Turning Into Ash


How can I know to even dream such horror?

An explosion
Trees blaze into ash as a moment ruptures
People walking, burst into flames 
Burning before they can even scream
With only the gnashing of their skeletal teeth
Essence of their body's nerves set in motion
Creaking as they pop in faint repetitious movement
Descending into ashes and sticky black goo
Hands bound to each other as they stop twitching
With one last slow fall to the ground 

How can I know to even dream such horror?





See Saw


In an abandoned playground
a seesaw slams into the dirt. 
Dust from the pounding smokes,
swirls into images of a bunny. 

Having the life squeezed out, 
it is held by adoring arms.
Constant squeezing. 
Loved to death.

Smiles are rubbed on the soft wrinkles 
between the neck and shoulder. 
Tiny hands pat my back in reassurance, 
everything is going to be alright.  




Shadow Thief


A silken claw slides across my chest and molests me;
It digs deep to rip my heart out by its roots.

My voice chokes as I stop the murder,
Strangling the wrist of the hand that violates me.

A desperate arm-wrestle freezes in the sweat of cardiac arrest;
My hands tremble, holding back the dark thrusting fingers.

Stretching from the floor at the side of my bed,
A shadow rises, towers over me, smothers my sleep.
  
When I open my eyes, I see the faceless ghost of my killer
Melt back into the vampire book on the rug.