Read. Write. Repeat. Aspire to be a Janitor.
We are the hollow eyes wearily searching
for a constant high when we’re brought low
strangled by strangers’ hands and floating seaweed
tangled around the ankles below the face of the deep.
Take the rosewood wreaths from around our necks
and lay them on the doorsteps worn by tired soles
in remembrance of the echoes knocking, almost silently.
Drum on strong to distant shores
so our families can rest forevermore.
Down by the tracks where train cars rattle
in unison with arthritis-stricken fingers,
the children wheel and scream, beating old tires
with rebar rods and aerator dirt clods.
I’m reminded of a time when we use to play
swinging on ropes and hanging from chains.
The streetlights would flicker as the sun went away
we would scurry on home at the end of the day.
The grass seemed greener and the air much more clear
than when I look out now to the backyard with all
the overgrown grass and empty bottles of beer;
now we are older and the cares of the world sit wasting
on our hunched backs, scribbled in lines by hands
stained with ink from our pens struggling to capture
each thought and passion for posterity’s sake.
Drum on strong to foreign shores
so I can finally rest forevermore.
For forevermore, there will be a blinding light
filling our hollow eyes for one last time and our minds
will rest in the flowing sea, rocking forward and back
until all fades into the overwhelming blackness of nighttime
closed eyes, hoping to forget everything from the previous day.
Bridging the Ecclesial, the Academic, and the Political
Because poetry. And petals.
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from Morgan Bradham
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
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