The Runaway Words


           The wind whipped through the wrinkles on Benny’s face as he hobbled across the parking lot, one hand on his cane, the other holding down his hat. He wore his old brown winter coat, leather gloves, a knitted scarf and a bowler hat. His clothes had begun to wear with use over the years, and ever since his wife had died, there was no one to sew up frayed ends or patch up ripped holes. A particularly large gust of wind hit Benny in the face and he staggered back a step as the top button of his coat popped off.

Blinking his dry eyes, Benny reached out to pick up the button, but it rolled out of the way. Harrumphing, he straightened himself on his cane, took a few steps and stretched his hand out again. His shaking fingers had barely grazed the button when it was…

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After his Image


I can see you going down to death
with all the hope of losing love’s last breath
that parts the meaning to a muddled soul
where pain and blood are cut from severed whole.
If you wish to pierce the ending wound,
Do it quickly. See yourself marooned
as light from life departs unholy crown,
you’ll find that Death will meet you halfway down.

Should you see a way to joyous light,
I’d hope you’ll spread those wings in soaring flight.
As womb through pain gives might to newborn life,
the tomb last gains the weakened man from strife.
The troubled days must break the toughest soil –
Redeem your depths with love’s bejewelled toil.

(note:  There was a musical effect I was attempting to affect here.  To sample it better, I’d suggest vocalizing either stanza repeatedly (the effect in one is the opposite of the other).  After trying…

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the Book of Pain

Another good man has gone to his good grave,
his dim days dim now no more.
Below the blue sky, the green bush trims the stream
while the water shushes over the old dam.
In the cool shadows, fat speckled trout glide to and fro
and hide from us just beneath the foam.
We do not fish, not here anymore,
that world is long gone and so nearly too are we.
But he is still there, of this I am sure,
waiting and smiling and fishing evermore,
where he was ever most happy—I am sure.

This poem is dedicated to Mark Higgins, my father’s dearest friend who died in April, 2007;  he was 81 years old.

When I was growing up Mark was very much an uncle to me and I loved him very much. He was a quiet, sweet, gentle man, a logger by trade who was happiest in…

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LOVELY LINE….. The smallest sound deafens

JJR Writing.

Heavy eyes and heavy thoughts
Yet your body floats

Bags of soot cloud vision
Words are impossible to speak
The smallest sound deafens
With your head against a pillow

Itch, scratch, itch
Open, close, open
Twist and turn
Exhaustion wins.

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