No Calls for Wizards Anymore

He waited quietly for the fire
in the pit to die down,
contemplating what he
had found written in the scattered
bones and petals.

Each month he scried under
the light of the full moon,
practicing lost arts
in the anonymity
of a hidden basement.

He was powerful, a formidable
opponent of evil. He faced
down dragons at his peak,
staff in hand atop a stone,
fearless protector of the weak.

But, there are no calls for wizards
anymore, no dragons to face
down or goblins to chase after;
the evils of today are not susceptible
to magic and heroes.

So he keeps his potions and powders
hidden away, stores his staff in the corner
and locks the room behind him, waiting
for the signs to indicate it was time
to reveal himself again.

.

.

For the Sunday Whirl

Blood

The price of sin is blood,
an ancient law which
has never been revoked.
How much blood
to cover my sins,
your sins,
the sins of a world?
The blood of the world,
your blood,
mine?
No.
The price has been paid —
in full, for all — by one man,
nailed to a cross
and bled,
bled until his fluids
ran clear.
The blood of a man,
dead on a Friday,
risen as Son of God
on Sunday.
Blood shed to pay
the price for you
and me.

During the Night

I am sleeping less but the dreams
last longer, full of daylight and dread,
anger and confusion. There may be
sleep, but there is no rest.

There is a crack in my world, a chasm
separating yesterday and tomorrow,
memories and visions. The edges blur
and the depths beckon.

She prays for me, asking for the pieces
to be made whole, the abstract clear
and the distant near. The angels hover,
awaiting the bells toll.

.

A somewhat disjointed start of a reply to
Margo Roby’s image prompts.

County Walks, Sea Memories

There are times when I
still hurry past this place —
an interruption of peace
and contemplation — but the tree
has now grown enough
to disguise the wound
carved upon its skin.

Removed from sight
my mind can be at ease,
but there are memories
which can not be forgotten.

Tonight, emotions will be stirred
with my drink, I will take down
the jar of sand from the mantle
and spread it across the paths
of yesterday.

Perhaps, when the jar is empty,
I can begin to refill my heart.

.

.

For the Sunday Whirl wordle.

Faceless

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are right,
there is nothing
left to say.

You should leave.

How can I hope
to face you
when I cannot
even face
myself?

.

.

for The Mag image prompt.

In which the dreams become too real

The dreams are coming
more often,
each more vivid
than the last.
The beast rises
upon the dais
and I know not
whether to fight
flee or fly.

for the image prompt at The Mag

Clarifying Memories

These streets stretch me,
pull me to places I thought
forgotten. Children’s calls
echo from porches and yards,
faint apparitions flit before
me, like my breath — visible,
but insubstantial, then gone —
on this March morning.

They put us on the train
with a promise of relatives
waiting at the appointed stop.
Three kids to one berth, clinging
to each other instead of parents,
unclear about what it means
to die.
I remember the sounds
of that ride –the constant repetition
of wheels on track, the jingle-jangle
of the change in my pocket,
the snores from the next bed,
my sister’s nightmares —
but not much else.

There are chalk stains
on the sidewalk — hopscotch
and the creatures a child’s
mind creates — toys left overnight
in yards, bikes in driveways.
Nothing, and everything,
is different, and there
is nothing here to find.

No, there are only memories
to master and words to leave
at graves.

Words on a Stone

It is cold,
this memory,
this granite placeholder,
permanent bookmark
in a set aside story.

Each time I resume
reading I begin
at this stone
and the words
become too blurred
to continue.

.

.

for the Trifecta 33 word challenge 

Adequate Portrayal

use paint to show passion,
be fearless when you capture
the details of her body,
use sprees of color, be meticulous
with every part, but pull
away…
you are an outsider,
observing through an open
window,
seeing only the surface.

the intimate — ah, yes, the inner
being — must be reserved
for the written, for the eyes
can never fully appreciate her,
whereas words — while still
woefully inadequate —
can provide a glimpse
of the soul.

.

.

for the Sunday Whirl

Saturday Night on Main Street

The couple stroll down the revitalized
sidewalk, remembering when the mortar
was fresh between the fading bricks,

A locomotive blares its warning
to the shoppers, mid-life motorcycles
argue against the rumbled passage,

Eight groomsmen gather in the wake
of the train for photographs, cheeks red,
but too young to be cold.

She smiles at the young men in tuxedos
and the grey ones in leather, pulls her scarf,
and his arm, close against the March snow.