Claudine C. Wargel
A Child LostWhose hands could work
such a heinous deed that laid to death this innocent child? A boy who bore-- though much he’d seen-- eyes unknowing and open. His smile willing, he welcomed a friend. He needed more than his world could give: Siblings many, provisions few, attentions were torn and jealousy thick. Barely hidden rage hung, a thin veil between his precious, tender beginning his promise and yearning, and his wrongful, woeful end. Who can regard his killer with love? Who can regard this monster without disdain? There is none. There is no cause, no mercy, no reason to find in hatred. The WindSo much is gone, fleeting
Yet captured, Seared into matter that records, inexplicably. Cypress rests in piles where it had stretched skyward, Embracing a bounty of golden grain. Flow. Fill. Chaff-filled sky. Flow, deplete, wait. Then fill. The corn, the beans—an annual tide. Moved in, moved out. Coon, sparrow, rat-- They come, play, eat and lay. Down, over, up, across. Grain moves. Up, then down, goes man, goes child. Down, then up, go beans, go corn. Up then down go beans, go boards. Kittens duck amid its feet, darting through the dark. It hulks, it holds. It shivers as its treasure lays in. And then, 110 years in… The Wind. Potent. Unyielding. Stressing. Straining. Snapping cypress. Now - long gone the grain, the rat, the cat. Still near the watchful man, the now-grown child. Down, down, back to soil Go cypress beams, go cypress planks. But never gone The days of gold and hearts well fed. GrayGray.
Wind whipping. This sky and world are mean With cancer. Is it morning? Nightfall? So much the same. Where is the sun That warms, cleanses Grows and heals? Can I move without it? Care without it? Why - So dark Unsettled Cruel. The trees roar--in dance with an evil mate. Sun-drop, Can nothing grow without you? My garden will fail. My will, shrivel - Pale Transparent Spineless. I recline Plump my bag of feathers Pull up The quilts Of tattered cotton comfort And sigh An impoverished cloud. |
Vanilla Was EnoughPubescent,
our smallish hands waved chemical dipped sticks - popping and spitting fire. That night was all light, all handmade ice cream. Vanilla was more than fine. Dashing madly, we ran through sticky darkness awaiting great sparks to come. Hastily, we capped mason jars-- fresh-emptied of peaches our mothers had worked -- now ablaze with frantic bugs. Freedom. Independence. It was simple then in those days when we knew so little of ourselves, so little of our human needs, our subtleties. They would grow. In those days we still wanted what was Right, what was Wholesome. 4-H ribbons and home-baked pie, bottomless sodas, the top Hereford steer. And, you always listened! Me – jabbering endlessly. Mostly of boys. Did I listen? Ever? Amid the popping sparklers, show ring loudspeakers, clanking spoons? I did, I knew your heart. I loved every sinew, every sheltered spot. But I still believed, in those days, that vanilla was enough. Secret PlaceOh, Muyil
I long to return to languish at your celestial side, to warm my flesh under the Mayan sun, to the spongy core of my bones-- no cell left in chill. Frolic in your coarse grasses, your mangrove maze and float and flutter and forget. I yearn for your unearthly beauty-- your solitude, silence, simplicity. Your story seems written behind you, nearly lost. Is a new chapter open for me? Pray each morn at your side, I would. Scorch my calloused soles upon your sand. Oh, secret long-lost place-- you reflect yet feed my soul. Coveted you are. Help me reason my return to reclaim my heart-- already there. Leaves of AutumnLike the leaves of Autumn
that gently fall, when the spirit calls so must we all. Even roses wither, their petals drifting away. Just as the bright bloom fades, we all will have our day. The fluffy seeds of dandelions will give in to the wind. It’s but a new beginning-- think not of it as an end. |
