My literary musings and creations
We can stop gun violence when more people have guns…Wayne LaPierre
Texans should have open carry permits…Rick Perry
Saturday movie night in
a Texas theater
“Star Wars”
I hear a shot, see a man
in the aisle, aiming a Glock
take him down with mine
feel a bullet slap my shoulder
another shatters the wall beside me
gunshots flare like popcorn
muzzles flash like fireworks
then it stops
nineteen killed, thirty injured
only one knows
who fired the first shot
I am far behind
on my opportunities to use
those three words
so often thought, infrequently heard
I find myself wishing
for one more hour
with my parents
wishing I could go back with
my kids back to a younger age
to make up the deficit there
to listen a few moments to a friend
when I didn’t have the time
and my wife to whom
I can never say enough
I love you
The yard looked stunning yesterday.
When I finished mowing,
I trimmed round the roses,
headed the geraniums,
and walked to the street to look back on my work.
The house, as grey as
springtime fog,
with sage green shutters
was trimmed in gold by the brush of afternoon sun;
all now just a memory.
My yard is there, somewhere
beneath a pile of
cars, shingles, fence posts,
the house an open dance floor,
no orchestra in sight.
Perched like a giant bird
in the stub of a tree,
my refrigerator still holds yesterday’s leftovers
and eggs for today’s breakfast,
forever scrambled.
From a shredded branch of a magnolia tree
a mockingbird sings his joy:
for the bright sunshine,
for living another day.
I nod and sigh,
and a hesitant smile swells from deep within me
as I must,
in spite of everything,
join his celebration.
For our fallen military – Veterans Day
Fair Sunday morning
port of pearls
a child draped within mother’s arms—
battleship quays strung and fastened
swarms of flies disturb awaken
a sleeping force gathers itself
to swat them away
fighter planes perched tip to tip
flightless, fall easy prey
Arizona, hit by piercing flare
ripped, gutted by stowed magazine
settles to her watery bed
as hundreds float stillborn within
Desperate dancers
search for space between bullets
a twisting, arching ballet
to tympani fortissimo, staccato snare
hot bite of shrapnel in treble screams
between oil and flames
a human log jam crowds the sea
with glass eyes and waxy fingers
wayward toe
torn lip that last kissed mother goodbye
others lie on stretchers
awaiting trial by triage
Uncle Roy’s dreams Billy’s future generations dissolved
suspended by marriage of powder and steel
in frothy, bleeding brine
Carl Shakey married Becky Tree
became my parents
so I was
Chuck Shakey-Tree
a few months ago I married
the beautiful daughter of
George Dull and Brenda Axe
my new bride, Charly
told me today of our pending child
but what a burdensome name for a child
learning to spell
Carl or Carla
Shakey-Tree-Dull-Axe
I see the images as clear
as if yesterday
though I don’t remember much
from yesterday
My granddad took us
my brother and me
to a little fishing hole he knew
where there were sure to be fish
Our tackle – a cane pole
silk line, small hook
and a box or two of
tasty-looking worms
I saw the chuckle in
my brother’s eye
and was ready to learn
the science of the game
how to thread the worm
just so – to keep it on the hook
right away I felt a tug
and pulled to set the barb
my brother, excited,
wrapped his line around
an overhead branch, fish attached
we soon retrieved the three inch beauty
we filled a stringer with hand-sized
blue-green-gold bream
they flavored our afternoon
with pride
few afternoons since have
been spent so well
sharing fun and love
and a banquet of fish
O, let America be America again –
The land that never has been yet –
And yet must be— Langston Hughes
Children are foolish
to be born of parents
with no parenting skills
or the temerity
to be sick or malnourished
or to have nothing
and come to a land of plenty
or commit the crime
of darker skin, different tongue
as a nation proclaiming God
and rejecting His will
can we provide
for the least of these?
As morning brightness
sparkles on water far below,
a tiny silver bird turns toward me,
grows into a screaming vulture
and shakes the tower
beneath my feet.
Orange fingers reach through
cracks and holes,
seeking me,
hot breath against my back,
urging me along.
A young woman stands,
head pressed against the outside wall.
dread and pleading in her eyes.
She comes to me,
her fingers searching for mine.
I open them to her.
Seared by the inferno,
we spend a silent moment memorizing each other,
as dark tendrils search between us.
She swipes a fist at smudged tear trails.
Together,
we step to the window ledge.
Sharing one last glance,
our hands grip tightly.
We escape into cool, blue air.
There was a time generations ago
when the frail held a special place
at the family table
we wanted to love
There was a time generations ago
when we sat at Grandma Mary’s feet
and heard her stories
we wanted to know
Now is a time of
bleach bland food walkers
blaring Fox News
stored like teacups in a cupboard
Along the way my life became
two entities
One touched me, hugged me close to him
the quiet, moody one
He soothed my ragged brow
felt torment in my day
said he could take it away
The louder, boisterous one
smiled and nodded as he heard my grief
Said he could bring me
one more day, one more chance
to find the way
I saw no hope with the louder one
one more day to struggle
one more chance to fail
I laid my head on the quiet shoulder
and let him take my hand
In remembrance of Robin Williams – We will miss him
Poem from “All of Me” by Hal C Clark
Hal C Clark's Blog 