If I could move on tapered wing
By feathered flight my mind would soar
To see this world through minted eye.
The social walls that kept me out
Those haughty souls, cigars alight
I’d see behind their curtains drawn
And share the fear that fills the glass
The pompous sound from marbled hall
That drowns out noise from shantied town
I’d fly a thread so fine and strong
Connecting all from shore to shore
Gossamer winged this sound would go
The sound of love transmitted long
From soul to soul, be young or old
To resonate within us all
And each would clasp the filament bright
And feeling strong from each to each
We’d all embrace as cheek to cheek
Yes, if I could fly on tapered wing,
I’d glide through clouds of inner self
And find the light that waits within.
What cold heart would take a life as this?
unknowing of the ways of man
Faltering steps, had hardly begun
to find its footing
a flame of nature’s quirks extinguished
long before it fulfilled its true potential.
what do we tell our children about
the callous arrow that pierced the still air
onward to its target
set atop those spindly legs?
Heart bound, no love or kisses from that cold bow
Flexed in darkness raging to the light
Breathless kid, trampled beneath the blood lust
fear that could not show its face
snuck off across the Bay
White tufts of trust, betrayed.
whoever stole this life,
open your heart and forgive yourself
the spirit of the fawn looks down
and does the same.
I had to be up early for the plane
Anxious time, wake up time.
Is there an alarm clock
And then paused
For a long time
Or so it seemed to me
At the time.
But I do have a clock radio.
Oh good we can use that.
You didn’t pause
But it doesn’t work
Will you wake up
Somehow our relationship
Has always been about
No alarm clocks
And broken radios
Love was the clock
And I was the radio.
You had me
But you didn’t know how to fix me.
No wonder I found it hard.
Malcolm Davidson lives in RI and has been writing poetry for about 17 years. His creative writing is in sharp contrast to his career as a technologist.
He is an active participant in the group OSP (Ocean State Poets) of Rhode Island and, when his job allows, he works with inmates at the ACI in Cranston RI.
His work can be found in the short collection called “If I could Fly”.
Today I read that so-and-so passed away quietly
at her home and wondered
if downstairs a husband sat flipping channels
on the remote, retriever asleep nearby
or lapping water from a bowl in a darkened
kitchen. What does it matter whether or not
she pulled the blinds to shut out the streetlight
before slipping between sheets. I see her,
paperback in hand, the last thing she read
before meeting her maker,
whoever that is. Whatever she believed,
this woman I didn’t know,
who might have gone down for the glass of water
she liked to keep by her bedside.
Perhaps her shadow self passed the man
who said he’d be right up, who
followed a sliver of light upstairs.
Outside purplish sky shut down stars,
the blanket of pines, prayerful in her yard.
Did her heart stop while she thought
of Sunday dinner, deciding meatloaf, potatoes,
the way I did after finishing the newspaper.
I sliced onions that made me weep,
banging pots and pans as the water ran,
potatoes in the sink,
waiting to be peeled.
Irene Sherlock’s poems, essays and short stories have been published in Alimentum, Amaranth, Chautauqua Literary Journal,
Cloven Sphere, Cream City Review, Connecticut Review, Dos Passos Review, Eclipse, Fairfield Review, Melusine, Miranda Magazine,
Poem-memoir-story, Poet Lore, Poetry Motel, Primavera, Roux, Runes, Slipstream, Tar Wolf Review, The New York Times,
White Pelican Review and in several anthologies.
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