Clamp shut the doors, seal up the crevices and barricade the windows to the ordeal of death beyond the waters that separate cultures but not equals but be prepared to embrace the wrath of such deeds in a way that prove catastrophic in ways never imagined.


Need prompt

Wasn’t so much as a want but a need

built up over time

whispered with moist lips

into a warm ear.

A slight coaxing of a rough chin

grazing upon

 velvety skin

that turn pleads into desire

to settle something buried

until touched by masterful words

that leisurely slide

up the inner thigh like

a flask filling with a golden

liquid that burns

but serves the purpose of

the human need to connect

with another soul

in this time

of short existence.

Like a Penny

The silence of the ventilator, once the

heartbeat within these walls, now paralyzes me. 

Denial has decided to embed itself firmly

within the empty place my heart once was.

My family, collects around me, but they have

arrived too late to bar the door from dread.

Fear followed their path,

pushing promise aside, disregarding

my pleas to stay at bay.

Moving into the sterile, quiet room

without invitation or welcome.

The last shards of hope strangled by its presence,

slowly building to suffocate me

with a clench that refused to loosen.

They squeezed my hand but only 

my heart felt the grip.

Nestled within my mind

I concealed a scream that was

suppressed by words

not spoken,

truth not yet told.

And like a penny on the tracks

I lost my shape

as despair pushed inside the room.

Without a chance to inhale

the Doctors words spilled into the air.

Silence sliced my reality

with the whisper of

She is no longer

and like that penny,

I felt worthless.

Fern Hill | Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas

On November 9, 1953 Dylan Thomas died in New York.  In honor of his remarkable talent for poetry and prose I am posting one of my favorite Dylan poems.  In truth, I never favored this poem until I heard a recording of him reciting it. Now it is one of my many favorites.

Dylan Thomas, 19141953

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
     In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be 
     Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
     In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
     And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
     And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
     Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
     And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
     Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
     In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
     My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
     Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
     In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
     I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

They Wait

In line, they wait. Their souls offered up for money that has touched the lining of too many unwashed trousers. Desperate, they trade favors with a god they don’t believe in and compose promises they never intend to keep. Biting filthy nails, picking at half-healed sores or chewing on their darkly painted lips, they wait, marking time with the song on the stage that provides their next meal.  Adjusting what little material covers their oiled skin while shifting from stiletto to stiletto they make an effort to forget a family they no longer know.

The music stops, the microphone booms. Collectively they inhale and lift their chins. Unlike cattle headed for slaughter, they know their fate, their unexpected destiny. The next girl goes on as the other descends the metal stairs, bare, belittled and destitute as the owner extends his grimy hand before allowing her to pass. Head bowed like a child she delivers the bills to him, wrinkled and damp. He slaps her and the surprise sends her reeling against the metal stage. She crumbles to the floor.  “Next time do better” he says and steps over her naked body without pause.  The girls dissolve into themselves, blind to their reality for the sake of self-preservation, and they wait.