On March 4, 2013, I attended one of Seamus Heaney’s final public readings prior to his death. He was the featured poet at Baylor University’s Beall Poetry Festival, and he wrote a poem for the occasion. It hangs on the wall in the English Department’s Carroll Science Hall. Enjoy.
the emptiness
the watching
waiting
sunlight glowing
quickly fading
falling inward
outward gazing
when will hope arrive
* In response to a writing prompt from Creative Talents Unleashed.
for KW
the words hit hard as stones
take up your cross and follow
where bones whiten under
a relentless sun and dissipate
to dust in the wilderness
i fasten a casket to my back
crawl down the road still
bruised by a barrage of love
rain streaks across the stained glass,
and lightning reveals the prayers
of pious saints preserved in stone.
some churches rebuilt after bombs
came crashing, crushing foundations
built by men. still the walls climb
like fingers grasping for the wind,
and the haunting they seek to cage
slips past unnoticed like a ghost.
From Awaiting the Images
she stayed a few days longer
even after she left. i felt
her presence when the cats
looked up from napping and stared
bewildered at something over
my shoulder, circled twice
and laid back down to dream
of worlds we will never know.
From Awaiting the Images
I found you near the river’s
edge after the soldiers left.
Your child breathed softly
in your arms, eyes glowing
with wonder. You were asleep
to this world, wide awake
somewhere else. A shade
by our sides, perhaps,
or galaxies beyond our sight.
I whispered a word and walked
away, and the autumn light
flickered in your child’s hair
like flecks of gold as I carried
him across the fading horizon.
This is the first poem of mine ever published by a journal. It was published by Offerings in its 4th Quarter 2000 issue. I have no idea whether the journal still exists, but I am thankful that it encouraged me to keep writing, as I encourage you to do the same.
High Tide
He is too far away from the sea
to notice the sun dance on water.
He will never hear waves
pound against sand.
Too far away to play with children;
to believe sand castles
will never fall, then rebuild
when they do.
Instead he is fifty stories above
ground, grinding towards
a muddled dream as the first
floor fills with water.
the machine believes money
is love. honor and prestige
parade through the town
with cash clenched tightly
in their hands. they build
monuments to honor sport
while souls are crushed
under the clamor of their
self-congratulatory speech.
* From Awaiting the Images
He sits against a fence
listening to the wind slip
through the ragged slats –
Whispers, whines, groans
too low for the soul to bear.
Light drips from the willow
overhead, illuminated shapes
spring across the dirt and grass.
Wind. Nothing else. Emptiness
filled with rays of brazen life.
More than a blanket
that covers shame,
you are an elixir which
removes wretched spots.
You dissolve in blood,
are carried from veins
to the depths of rebirth.
Something eternal stays
behind: specks of light
scourging dark cells.
Awaiting the Images 