A Poem by Bob Boldt
Walls are ablaze with murals red, yellow, green, and brown.
Torches march on the graves’ fallow ground
and glistening streets drink the sweet October rain.
Skeletons’ shadows dance the walls.
Little banshees call from behind living, frightful masks.
The night is wild with black guitars.
The festival of Dia de los Muertos is here.
Banish the fear of death. Taste the sweet sugar skull.
The dead are drunk in rum-soaked ground.
Papa Ghede’d eyes reflect the sparkling array
as a billion dead stars shine down.
Tomorrow we die anyway!