The End of a Story Yet to be Written

…..

The gates of the graveyard
closed as the four Riders
of Judgement passed within —
close behind their quarry,
the Witch, carrier of Man’s sin —
locking of their own accord.

Doves circled the cemetery
for seven days, denying
egress to the ravens within,
while Wolves and serpents guarded
the gates, ensuring neither Rider
nor Witch should pass.

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A Place

The writer seeks a place,
quiet and comfortable with books
and the necessary tools.

The lonely seeks a lover,
tender and understanding
with eager ear and open heart.

The homeless seeks a shelter,
more than food or warmth,
a place of caring and respect.

There are things you desire
and those that are necessary,
and some which are both.

Monster

The heart of a monster,
consumed by the heat
of its anger, the power
of pride and the passion
of provoked prejudice.

The heart of a monster,
charred to a state of cinder
and ash, subsisting —
for a time — on the energy
of a forgotten ember.

The heart of a monster,
smolders within a shell
of ugliness, bruised and scarred
from attacks against
the affront of its existence.

The heart of a monster,
reborn from the ashes of hatred,
healed by the gentleness
of a touch, bathed in a
baptism of tears.

snooze

how easy
it is to
forget promises
made a mere
nine minutes
before…

Gravy

It was a lot of years before
I could serve gravy
without reservation,
frequently presenting a bland
paste or an overly
salty broth.

I think a modicum of age-aquired
patience is the key,

and stirring, a constant motion
of the whisk while adding increments
of flour and slowly increasing
the heat.

There are still lumps most
of the time — small and less
numerous — and I keep the salt
close at hand, but I now
taste before adding.

I do not remember the sounds
of rapid stirring from my mother’s
kitchen, or a salt shaker
on the table or clumps of flour
mixing with the rice.

All I remember is the gravy
being excellent.

 

Red Balloon

Amidst the horde of hats and coats
huddled beneath

umbrellas — straining
to maintain structure —

there is an upturned
face —

oblivious to the wet, sting
of the drops —

watching the path
of the red balloon

as it fights to reach the heights
it is destined for.

Black

Black,
to him, it is more than a color,
it is an identity,
a mantra,
a way of life,
a culture and a belief.
It guides his actions
and determines his friends,
chooses the place of his home,
the nature if his church
and the power of his convictions.
It is the cross he bears
and the flag he waves,
the box he checks
and the first word used to describe him;
more important than gender
or place or date of birth,
almost taking the place of a name.
He would prefer to be called
a man —
no preceding adjectives —
but differentiating descriptors are a
societal requirement,
so, he clings to it and waits.
Black is his creed,
his motivation and his history,
a thing he could no more shed
than his skin.

once a year

transient,
…homeless,
…….vagabond,
…………bum…
these are the words
…we call them.

hungry,
…cold,
……lonely,
………ashamed
are the words they
…call themselves.

I am sure it was you —
…yes, you, standing
……there smiling
………and gracious

as you fill bowls,
…working
……your annual shift
……….at the shelter —

who drove past these
…same souls
……as they stood
………on the corner

holding their signs.

Of the Night

The skies are clearest
on the coldest
of nights,

the stars the brightest
when the moon
is absent,

and troubled dreams
are not always forgotten
in the morning light.

Upon Reading the Poems of Mary Oliver, In Which She Refers to the Poet in Third Person

I write as often as I may
a poem or a chapter,
a recounting of the hours
of the day, or the days
that can pass in the course
of a night.

I write as often as I may
of laughter, but tears
frequently fall, searches
of joy where anger
is normally found.

I write as often as I may,
trying to expound
on the mundane found
in the spectacular, and vain
attempts to simplify
the amazing.

I write as often as I may,
never quite satisfied with
the result. Maybe this is why
I follow the advice of a friend
and leave the titles of ‘author’
and ‘poet’ for others to bestow,

never referring to myself
as anything more than ‘writer’.