RickThePoet

Saguaro Sunrise

 In the desert
beyond the mountain
the Saguaro stand silently
Sentinels guarding
God’s beauty.
Guardians of the gates
from Arizona to the sea.
Arms extended to heaven
we pretend to know what it all means.

The thorns extending from their  trunks
threaten
predators
daring to approach.

The scorpions scurry about
dwarfed by the green giants
worshipping them
while they worship the cactus gods
they are reaching towards
in whatever space
they seem to be.

Is the sunrise
the beginning 
or the end?

       

Weekends

He used to think that weekends
were for relaxing
by the pool
and praying to a God
who didn't understand
about things
he didn't understand
or want to.

He used to think he wasn't alone
with himself
At least he harbored an illusion
of group living
that allowed him to ignore
the voices
in his heart of hearts.

After a marriage
Loneliness becomes an art form
and weekends carry with them
Grand Canyon sized mental scenery
while we travel in a small plane
through eons of rock formations
and centuries of change.

Now he knows what weekends are for
and he doesn't have anyone
yet
to do it with.

Old Man

He slowly pattered to the chair
Cloth rubbed raw and chafing
Slippers worn and in their place
Pipe and Ashtray next to the lighter
his wife had given him on Memorial Day.

His body bent forward
and his gaze fell on the carpet
threadbare from walking and pacing
during illness and crisis.

He was alone now
Slowly dying
and living slowly.

He watched the flickering television
looking for meaning
and not looking at all.
Did he remember the President
and the year
or did he remember a kiss in 1947...
Or was it ‘48?

He felt a tightening in his chest
and knew his end was coming
He closed his eyes
and remembered the past
thought about the future
and prayed to whatever God
was up there.

When he died
They removed the body
Boxed his belongings
Threw them in the trash
Emptied his bank accounts
and went on living.        

Dust to Ashes

He left the unmade bed
and the desk’s dark clutter
The ceiling was still gray
from the time she set the furniture on fire
but
everything had to be the same
The crib was naked
He turned and watched the curtains dance
sensuously
The bathroom was sterile
He lit a candle
in remembrance
to remember

He had to hang her stockings
to remember

His cigarette went out
He lit another
properly placed it in the ashtray
He was careful to apply the correct amount of lipstick
to the filter.

He heard the phone ring
Heard it say
I’m Sorry and
It won’t be the same
No, he said,
and hung up
feeling sick.

He stroked the cigarette
and the right mixture of ash
fell silently
and replaced some dust
his moving had disturbed.        

Christmas Blues

Rudolph had another glass of scotch
and
Nose redder than before,
staggered outside in the snow.
He looked for the other reindeer
But they were sleeping
in the stable.

They had a long night ahead.

Rudolph wondered whether they would follow him
again
into the dark night
filled with stars
and space debris.

He worried about his precious cargo
The fat man
with the bag of gifts
who was the last hope for millions
of innocents
waiting for happiness
to be delivered
in the night
by a man invented by their parents
able to leap tall buildings with a single bound.

Suddenly all became clear
and Rudolph staggered back into the bar
bleated another drink order
and drank himself into oblivion.
       

Photograph

He looked at the photograph closely
Image of his youth
Filled with promise
Overflowing with optimism

In a single dimension
the photograph reminded him
of another self
free to hope
free to wonder
free to grasp
looking for the future.

He remembered the photographer
prodding
annoying
motioning
jostling with the hangers on
and the wannabes
sharing his soul
whether he wanted to or not.

He took a picture in his mind
moved to another decade
and
wondered whether the wisdom
of age
would be enough
to bring the photograph back to life.

Did it look back at him
and laugh?