Poems ✍️

Somewhere a hand is reading out loud-
an old bible, a weatherworn journal.
Recording the daily assaults –
memorizing rain and shielding eyes
from the sun.

Somewhere a hand strikes a child-
throws a drunkard down
a flight of stairs.

Somewhere someone reaches
from darkness, to utter shadow-
to meet the body of another:
trembling with excitement or fear.

Somewhere someone enters the infinite
halls of the mind- into
the recesses of life, finds their dream
and cries.

Somewhere a mother
weeps over her dead child-
uses her hair to bandage
the wound in his head- unfolds
her hands from prayer to shut
the cathedral window of his eyes-
presses her lips to
the kaleidoscope of his mouth:
feels the wind rush through her,
feels it as though grief has transformed her
from vertigo to nirvana. Sees without seeing;
the last light of the year; neither lit for
remembrance or cause- but, which burns
because it must….spark hope in the heart
of those who witness its extinguishing-
because it must strike fear into the soul
of those who dare to defy it’s burning.

Somewhere death is a poet
composing the day’s eulogy;
high on life and late in the afternoon.

Somewhere a preacher kneels for
his flock- keeps them like
a good shepherd ought;
close to his heart.

Somewhere a bum recycles
a portion of daily bread- finds
the true nature of God
in soup kitchens-
while baby Jesus sleeps, abandoned
in a dark alley, trash can for a crib-
Sky scrappers become angels
who surround him, bending their
metallic faces toward the sky-
reaching for compassion who
lingers out of touch tonight.

Somewhere a hand types the minds
solitary column, reaches for a shot glass
to calm the nerves- stretches out
an awkward arm for the phone
to ease the nostalgia.

Somewhere a hand receives a telegram,
a handshake, waves hello or goodbye-
while someone experiences this
in a café; hiding from rain-
the home or work place-
reads it as though
they are extension of another self-
contemplating the perception of living
and the notion of life- finds reasoning
is often times undecided.

Somewhere this poem begins as
means to an end, and for another
ends to begin.