Exited

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Conclusions
Drawing them
An art that sure don’t care
An intellect? An artist?
Mess-maker? Long-jumper?
Languish in the mire, undecided

Conclusions
Feeling them
Hold an evanescent breath
Continue to stand and applaud
Hoping to prompt an encore
From a stage that’s gone dark

Wisdom Kingdom

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To turn the mourning to a song
To claim the weather was your choice
And all the ache a beckoned friend

To want no more than what is now
To plant the flowers among pests
And seeds of doubt in yesteryear

So then, with wisdom, kingdom come

Shane Instead

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Four rhythmic beats
Two words in West Indies timbre
And I was taken aback

Back, when I was something then
Again

Then again, back when I thought to dance
Those steps
Found me, easily

Those songs, those singers
Left me, heartily
Dancing alone, unknown
To me

Speeding

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You, Pontiac boy
Ever-beaconing muscle-car radio
Oldies songs all the way
Turned up

I, Chevy girl
Ever-grasping the volume knob
Ripped it off, tossed it out
My window

Pictured us
Forever grooving, reminiscing
Life-long love song
We’d drive

Endangered

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“Believe,” he admonished, five times again and again, from on high, living on bugs and breadcrumbs, singing some other language to me.

And speaking of crumbs, of fallen-food not given, I knew I’d better believe in something, since such was my fate.

He stopped then -they always do- and took away his scraps and sweetly sung psalms -they always will.

So she, a magical historian of a thing, in sweet song too, recounted, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.”

Photo Credit: Tiger R., age 9