Making Sense

“All of these leaves were brand new just a few months ago.”
This was the first thing dad said as we left the doctor’s office,
having just heard the biopsy results were positive.

Piles of them all around us, once ablaze
now brown and lifeless.

We walked to the car, his
every step deliberate and slow,
And I could almost feel his reminiscence in the air
like a warm whisper of sunshine
on that chilly November afternoon.

He was raking those leaves with his thoughts,

putting them in neat little piles, organized in a way
only he understood.
And that raking made him feel better somehow – made him
feel more ready.

And with that I helped him into the car, and I turned up
the heat as high as it would go… With it’s help and all my heart
we struggled to ward off winter’s chill, if only
for just a little while more.

Empty

Scream for me because I’m afraid
to. Let your hair fall in front
of your face, stick to your lips, your
tear stained cheeks. My eyes open
to the face of an angel and I’m
almost convinced. I turn away
from the happiness I once thought
I had, from the smiles that would
Come, from the kisses on the cheek.
It was almost the same, and that
scares me like sounds from a bedroom
would scare a child. Just walk to the sink
for a cup of water. Pretend it was
nothing.

Cry for me because I can’t. Emotions
like the ink in a disposable pen.
Throw me away and just live. No
ceremony or kind words, walk to another’s
insecurity, for I’ve found my faith in sleep.
Chattering teeth and chills warmed by nothing
but more blankets. Argue, fight for
the sick who wish to be saved.

Hope Springs

What glory to find the first whipsers of Spring,
braving wind and chill!
Where shivering Robins defiantly sing
against the blackbirds’ shrill.

A flash of warmth though only brief,
the smell of grass and flowers
quell the din of Winter’s grief
with thoughts of Summer hours.

Hopes returned by flocking geese
through skies of our content.
We yearn for a kiss of Summer’s peace,
our eager souls near spent.

So carry on you birds of Spring,
who with your songs bring cheer.
Though Summer’s just a passing fling,
she haunts our minds all year.

Cycle

Sever the ties, you chosen ones.
Run from that which bound you, choking
on the ashes from which you rose – battered
but better for it.
For freedom is sweeter

and more precious when it’s wrestled

from fettered hopelessness.
Honey now drips from our tongues, and with
each drop a generation shall move forth; each one
less aware of our struggle…

and the last complacent faces will stammer about;

hollow wretched faces, ghostly and vapid.

Will they be our final legacy?

Or will the struggle begin again?

Art Project

I stare at a blank screen and don’t know where to start.
There is far too much inside
and so much I want to say that I don’t even know how
(which is rare for me.)
I am maker of lists, and I write them:
Loss,
Frustration,
Apprehension,
Tension,
Sadness,
Anger.
…the list seethes, with no interesting way to release a single one.
.
‘It would all be fixed,’ I thought. And yet I realize now
there is still so much to fix.
I am sculpture…
Years of dirt and grime removed only to find that there are many cracks.

I don’t know where to start.

No ‘Pieta’, no ‘David’
… more like the clay workings of a grade-schooler and that I must accept.

I am “Ashtray for Dad on Father’s day.”

The Cure

She fades like the afternoon sun, so beautiful;
but the horizon he looms with open throat to swallow her.
With all my being I will choke him
till he swallows no more.
And she will be suspended sunset, for I will hold her
there in glory more colorful than ever before.
Until someday far, far from now, we slip
tenderly from sight.
Together.

Autumn

Leaves torn from branches by early October’s wind
flutter about, scraping over stone and brush.
Fraying at their reddish fringes,
occasionally they stick and I swear I can see them
gasping – if only for a moment – to catch their breath
before their tortured dance continues.

I find that I am cheering for them,
invested in their plight.
I realize I am one of them…

I too could have been crimson.

J.T.B.

I wrote this after the passing of my best friend, who will always have a special place in my heart.

 

Tears and marble,
Incense sweeping upward to kiss
The stained glass face of God Himself,
Your life feels as present as the clothes
We wear.
Yet we are worn.

Boys no longer, we have aged – yet
too young to carry you in this way, and
I pray that someone carries us.

-J. Humphrey

Under the Harvest Moon

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over garden ,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a friend
Who remembers.

Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the red ,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

-Carl Sandburg