After a while,
Everyone began to notice
That this was not the
Movie they thought
They had paid to see.
Someone started yelling
At the screen, as if
There could be nothing
Worse in the world
Than this situation.
People looked at each other
Walking out mostly in pairs,
Into the light of the lobby
Where everything
Would be okay once again.
Sweep, sweep, sweep,
Sweep away the dust,
Brush, brush, brush,
Brush away the tares,
Sweep, sweep, sweep,
Sweep away the tears,
The hopes, the fears
And the weary cares,
Wipe them all away!
With broom in hand
And a humble smile
My heart shines
Brighter than the Sun!
More at http://www.purelandsutras.wordpress.com.
I return to the best
books again hoping
they will still be the best,
hoping my inner cynic
doesn’t find a word
out of place, a situation
too far-fetched to believe,
to think again I was wrong
and have been suggesting
this book for years,
unaware of its blemishes.
He tries a million
Different things, and
None of them work.
He ponders the mystery
And decides it has
Nothing to do with him.
The missing element,
Of course, would be
What he doesn’t yet see.
My history is
A part of me
For it has made
Me who I am.
My reality is
Never far from
Me. I can grip it
With my hands.
My fantasy is
What came to me
When I imagined
Fully that I can.
My sanity is what
Separates me from
A world that I can
No longer stand.
No one harvests
the neglected weed,
though it sprouts and begs
to be collected.
No one coos or sighs
with satisfaction at its sight
in the window, though it
flowers just the same.
Poisons are given to it,
and it still comes back, it
is pulled up from the roots
and yet finds a way in.
Stacks of it are left, spread,
and threaten to choke out
the blossoms that are prized
by others.
More at http://jddehartwriting.blogspot.com.
The coal stove
In the little kitchen
Burned hot
A large pan
Of pinto beans
Boiled on the back burner
Sweat poured off
My mother
She took the iron skillet
From the cabinet
The weight so great
She used two hands
The utensil seasoned
From decades of frying
She opened the can
By the stove
Dipping the snow-white lard
With her big spoon
Lading it in the hot pan
She poured the corn meal
The same Martha White
The same flour company
That sponsored the Grand Ole Opry
She listened to
On the radio
Every Friday and Saturday night
The golden corn
Ground rough
Sifting it into the bowl
Saturating it with buttermilk
Then breaking an egg
Scrambling it in the mix
She poured a drop
Into the grease
Satisfied with the sizzle
That proved the readiness
She lifted the bowl
Allowing the ingredients
To freely
Blend with the hot oil
The pone formed
She took the skillet
From the top
Of the stove
Opening the door
Pushing the skillet
To the back
Of the oven
She sat the table
The mismatched dishes
The cheap metal forks
That passed
For her fine dinnerware
We gathered at the table
Mother offered the blessing
Thanking God
For the little
We had to eat
She poured the milk
Into my glass
Our crystal
Once Big Top peanut butter glasses
I broke a slice
Of steaming bread
Allowing the crumble
To slip through my fingers
Into the thick white
Stirring it with my spoon
I drank the milk
Then ate my beans
A true poor man’s dinner
That suited me fine