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Literature Text
the wind is warm. formless and granular. the sand whips
the masts of the ships that never sailed, failed voyages
dry docked and stillborn, worn like a mason's hands.
the road is unmarked, lightly traveled, a pilgrim's afterthought.
the old man, blind in one eye, shades his brow and whispers
a solemn greeting, resplendent with time and tragedies.
"welcome to Bohemia", he rasps, dry lips spitting each word
like watermelon seeds at a long forgotten 4th of July party.
he rises. joints stiff and sore from the scores of times
he has risen out of common decency, even for those unworthy.
dignity and respect, reflected in a genuflecting smile,
warmer than the armor of the amourist, or something like it.
he motions you to sit and offers a scone or some warm tea.
"I remember what is important", he says, the mind still in motion.
the chairs are wooden, plain and solid, the paint scratched
and the table patched more than once out of necessities.
the wind continues to sing. And then he speaks, rapidly,
words unheard anywhere in the universe anytime before.
the poet's tongue dances though trances and transitions,
memories and good intentions, untended and befriended.
the wind fades, the sun sets, and the voice holds court,
sport of the mind, grinding the fist sized rubies to dust.
then blowing them away with a puff of breath, mocking death
and the stuff of riddles and religions, pigeons sacrificed.
the final syllables are what you came for, the final stanza.
you strain to catch your name in the arcane utterances.
it is in there, you are certain, the curtain cannot fall
without your acknowledgment in the dance of the decades.
you raise your eyes to thank him for his courtesy, despite
all the unrelieved grief and find him gone, leaving behind
only skin and bone and the riddle of manuscripts memorized
and now gone on a wind that resumes its mocking wail, outside.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
the masts of the ships that never sailed, failed voyages
dry docked and stillborn, worn like a mason's hands.
the road is unmarked, lightly traveled, a pilgrim's afterthought.
the old man, blind in one eye, shades his brow and whispers
a solemn greeting, resplendent with time and tragedies.
"welcome to Bohemia", he rasps, dry lips spitting each word
like watermelon seeds at a long forgotten 4th of July party.
he rises. joints stiff and sore from the scores of times
he has risen out of common decency, even for those unworthy.
dignity and respect, reflected in a genuflecting smile,
warmer than the armor of the amourist, or something like it.
he motions you to sit and offers a scone or some warm tea.
"I remember what is important", he says, the mind still in motion.
the chairs are wooden, plain and solid, the paint scratched
and the table patched more than once out of necessities.
the wind continues to sing. And then he speaks, rapidly,
words unheard anywhere in the universe anytime before.
the poet's tongue dances though trances and transitions,
memories and good intentions, untended and befriended.
the wind fades, the sun sets, and the voice holds court,
sport of the mind, grinding the fist sized rubies to dust.
then blowing them away with a puff of breath, mocking death
and the stuff of riddles and religions, pigeons sacrificed.
the final syllables are what you came for, the final stanza.
you strain to catch your name in the arcane utterances.
it is in there, you are certain, the curtain cannot fall
without your acknowledgment in the dance of the decades.
you raise your eyes to thank him for his courtesy, despite
all the unrelieved grief and find him gone, leaving behind
only skin and bone and the riddle of manuscripts memorized
and now gone on a wind that resumes its mocking wail, outside.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Literature
Dear Daughter
Dear Daughter
I got your box from the prison the other day,
Ive seen so many of them,
I have no words to say.
What I fear now is that Ill die,
Before I finally see you truly spread your wings and fly.
I love you with all my heart,
Together as a family we can make a new start.
Come home to me and I will help you as much as I can.
It time to show yourself youre the better woman.
Christina Pryor
2009
Literature
Dear Mother
Dear Mother
I would like to tell you
That you’re the greatest mom in the world.
You tell me
To ignore what other people say.
You tell me
I’m the greatest daughter in the world.
I would like to tell you
You’re the support beam in my life.
So during our next encounter
I’ll make you breakfast in bed
And I’ll clean my room just for you
So that you can relax without worries
Because I love you.
Literature
Sink or swim
He stood on the dock
One foot reluctantly planted
The other standing at the ready
Like that fleeting moment
Suspended in mid-air
Gleefully anticipating the water on your skin
Yet apprehensive of those undiscovered depths
Which have yet to be kissed by sunlight
She dove in head-fist
Through the reeds and the icy darkness
And watched from below
As the light fragmented
Along the rippled surface
How stunning it was
Even in the deepest and feared unknown
Especially there.
In the light and in the dark
There was only him
He watched as she held her breath
Shackled by his own mind
Wanting for that planted foot
To be freed from its hesitations
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Now this one will keep me up a few nights.
© 2011 - 2024 williamfdevault
Comments8
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Sadly beautiful, must read again and again... <3