Tiny, wrinkled, new hands:
clutching, reaching, touching;
pudgy young hands:
learning, wandering, yearning;
bold and active hands:
fearless, curious, dauntless;
warm and sensuous hands:
caressing, cupping, aroused;
strong and working hands:
calloused, worn, weary;
caring, sensitive hands:
soothing, giving, healing;
hard, insensitive hands:
rough, removed, reluctant;
gnarled, wrinkled old hands:
wise, remorseful, resigned.
I’ve lowered my list of expectations:
for safety,
security,
equality,
privacy;
for assurance,
patience,
credence,
tolerance;
for humility,
credibility,
durability,
sensibility;
and most of what I’ve hoped, hoped for
in myself and others is less than more
expected now.
Forced to bow to reality:
my expectations were too high.
Passed we there
along the way,
a breath, a moment –
not to stay,
but off on paths that did diverge,
All for the difference, they say.
Perhaps we could emerge anon
and capture this brief walk again;
but who can tell where these trails turn?
Yet then we smiled and laughed and cried,
our youth and passions brightly burned,
and on that foray walked astride
and leapt and danced and sang inside
while passing there along the way.
Just emerged,
still and unsure,
gently testing
testing testing
Then off to the world of new,
no more encumbered.
Away!
Send them out while they’re young
and very naive;
when their senses of fear have not yet begun,
and we still can deceive them
to make them believe in
invincibility –
and the ability
to see there is nothing to fear
except fear itself.
And,
as the flags are draped over
and honor those truths,
that ever have marched forth our youths into fray
into fields where their bones lie at rest, and decay,
where the bugle call fades
at the end of the day
and all who are left
continue to say
they were there to protect and defend our right ways
as we stand and defend
and display their brave feats
while they silently lay near the soles of our feet.
Send them out young, and very naive
while they are still fearless and can still be deceived.
A caster of stones,
I hurled with the best,
a shower of rightness that bit the soft flesh
and punished the rest
of those who were wrong;
my throng of support
proved I was not alone;
this caster of stones
was delighted to test out his truths
through the bruised and
the broken,
those who had misspoken,
or drifted along
in perpetual wrong
that I righted with stones and my judgments.
A caster of stones,
or, at least, a stand-byer,
who watched as the firestorms
burned flesh after flesh –
and turned all those to ashes
that thrashed and were left –
those charred gnash-ed souls –
the tolls of bereftness and sin misbegotten –
who would all be forgotten –
and sifted by Death.
I stood reaffirming all I had learned and
had hidden just ‘neath my tightly wound soul-skin,
that erupted like pustules when I knew
that the right rules had been
blatantly challenged,
whom I dutifully scavenged
and ridded so rightfully so;
and I know as He hears me,
my pleas will all e’er be
He blesses the stones that I throw;
As those hurled by the psalmist
at that philistinian giant,
I may continue to triumph for the rightest of rights;
and there be no remands
as I champion commandments
and seek to demand the cleansing forth wit:
all who err shall be found out;
and with lasting loud shout I hurl the last stone –
this caster, alone — the judge of the morally unfit.
John 8: 1 – 11
To Betsey
Touching things we all must face:
the corners and the halt detours,
I’m glad to have known you in this race –
and know that, too, as age slows pace,
we will meet up once more;
at, perhaps that very door
that ushers all from one to next;
and we’ll embrace, hug each’s neck
and shed great tears of joy
and peals of laughter looking after
what has gone before
and what will be
for you and me
and all we know and see
along that endless eternity.
Written long past, when the Syrian conflict began between a president and his people.
Get a free book of poems just for selecting poems you enjoy . . . AND, a mention of your blog in the upcoming book of poems, “Slices.”
After more than a year on Word Press, I’ve decided to take selected poems from my blog and self-publish them in a work entitled “Slices.”
Why publish?
As my dad would have said, Why not? And, “It couldn’t hoit!”
Kathryn Amos Glover has agreed to illustrate the cover, as well as act as Creative Director (she has no one to supervise, though) in the effort to create the piece. You can see Kathryn’s wonderful artwork by going to Recommended Blogs on this site and clicking on her link.
I thought it would be fun to have my readers/followers help me select the work to go into the book.
If you would like to help, I’d like you to peruse my poetry, and make the comment “Include this in ‘Slices’.”
As an incentive, I’ll do two things:
1. Include your WordPress (or whatever else) blog site in the credits section of the book,
2. AND I will send you a free copy of “Slices.” No kidding!
Here’s the catch: Not all of my work is under Poetry in the Genres tab. BUT, the good news is you can search by category from the home page of my blog.
“Slices” is intended to be slices from life. My poetry runs the gamut, from pretty ok to pretty awful. So it really shouldn’t be too difficult to make a selection(s).
If you choose to help, my undying (I’m still alive) gratitude. If not, then you can’t complain when the book is finally published.
