The Eyes Have It
Eyes sharpened at the
whetstone
Honed to a glistening edge,
They used them to slice
and dice for
Homeworks forgotten;
Rooms left in cyclonic
disarray;
Reports unfiled;
Presents left ungiven;
Promises unkept---
Scythe-like orbs slipped into
you
And poured you into the
ground an
Unripened watermelon pulp
oozing red and pits.
They said that eyes had
not
A rapier wit, nor rending
ability
Though you learned they did,
As life essence formed a
puddle
Like water broken before
birth.
Give Her a Russian Name
Her skin, blue-green in
the dewy morning
As the train slips slowly
away in the graying mist.
Tattered clothing barely
clings to her withered frame,
Arms laden with a
squirming, mewling bundle.
Mother’s eyes green
lanterns pleading.
She struggles, barely
keeping pace with the moving cattle car.
The riders know their own
life struggle.
The mother tosses her in
their midst,
Falls back spent, her
green eyes a dim memory.
Only “Give her a Russian
name”
A scream ripping into the
clatter of the train’s wheels.
They had no milk.
One in the rear whispered,
“I will tell,” eyes, a red
glow.
She did.
They watched her ripped
from them
carried like trash from
the guard’s extended hand
broken like a ruler over
his extended knee.
They wept in silence,
no time to give her a
Russian name.
Balance
Tittup squandering of
white feathers
Neve snowfall of them when
they enter the dovecote.
The tenders blink in the
whiteout of their squawking.
A soft down rests like a
dandruff blanket
On their shoulders and in
their hair.
Doves separated in their
frenzy
Anxiously seek reconnection,
Until finally a calm
settles in like the eye of a storm
And the tenders can go
about their duties.
Their rakes muck at the
ground
Where the doves have left
a thick paste of that brew.
Tender’s faces covered in
masks to dam the malodorous offal.
The coop, stifling prison
balanced on an airless aerie
As life teeter-totters on
a beam of expectation.
And they all know—
The trees,
Waiting stoically
And the tenders
Who fill their baskets
with the congealed, white droppings.
They know when they sing
prayerful benedictions to the air,
And as they fill the
ground with their gift, that they are one.
And the tree blesses them
with a snowy shuddering of
its branches
He comes riding in and
then canters out. He resides in Mount Sinai, far from
Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He
spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online
publications. One of his poems, Forsaken
Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle. Twice selected
Poet of the Month in Poetry Super
Highway. He
was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included
in Poised in Flight anthology. A
Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan.
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