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The Rocking Chair

June 7th, 2013

The Rocking Chair

Another ember crackled in the fire
as the whispering winds of past
echoed silence outside my door.

The rocking of the smooth pine
kept time like an aged pentameter
slowly winding down.
And the rhythmic swaying
slowly lulled my bones to rest.

A tickle in my eye misted my squinted greens
and the thought of death
gave a smile upon a wrinkled face.

The crackling on the floorboards
moaned under the weight.
And life dripped into the decade
old grooves that had worn its
way into the tracks that I had chosen.

The last pass of the pendulum
as the sickle makes it mark.
The chair ground to a halt
as the pianist clamped the lid on the box.

Elvis My Dog And Other Stories

January 5th, 2012

Elvis My Dog And Other Stories

Tell me a story blind man for you are the Storyteller.
Tell me about the darkness
and how it sheltered you in its womb,
and pitied by all.
Tell me of the water.
What did you see?
Greed in the hands of power.
A glance the other way.
Did it hurt knowing the truth?
Perhaps that is why you are blind.
Tell me of the skies,
the beautiful charcoaled sunsets,
the hazy blanket of smog and the cold damp afternoons.
Were the toxins gentle on the animals?
Were you also blind to this?
From the holes of useless bile did remorse crave to see
that which I was forced to remember.
How can the Storyteller describe
the blistering flesh burnt onto the skulls.
The billions.
The stench.
The young spitting into my face as I ravaged their bodies.
Tell me.
Please tell me, Storyteller!

At your bedside I did read to you
whispered the tired old man.
Not a prouder father one could find.
Though blind to images of your world,
I saw with my hands and loved with my ears.
I tell you in honesty and in pain,
wept the old Storyteller.
What I did I did for you.
And to wear the crown of thorns
I would do all over again.
What I did I did from love,
I did for you.