Sunday, September 23, 2012

Poetry Corner #1 -- More of the Same

Poetry? Yes, poetry. I write it occasionally. Here's one I still particularly like. Deal with it. 

My poetry and early short stories are available in Gomer and Other Early Works.

More of the Same

He loosens the tie clutching his neck,
The extra pounds squeezed into rolls by the net of cheap silk.
He hates this place, these people,
The pettiness, the way they lock him
Into their definitions -- not his, never his.
A shepherd? Ha! More a fool.
And he secretly hates them more as he rises
To the pulpit
And preaches love.

And the same…
And the same…

She glares at the toddler,
His face and clothes strewn with the smudged
Colors of strained carrots and peas.
She sits, turns away, stares at the wall,
Counts to ten backwards, but her anger grows.
She would like nothing more
-- At this moment -- than to add to the red streaks
Across his legs, his back, his buttocks,
But she only sits and wishes.

And the same…
And the same…

He lies alone, watching the circle-once-circle-twice,
Then up-under and pull-tight as his lover dresses for work.
He is a pariah, an evil thing,
Not deserving of such love as his lover gives,
Told worse, much worse, by the ones
Supposed to care, to embrace, to forgive.
And he hates: them, their religion, their hypocritical piety,
Their words that tell him he is less than human.
His solace is his lover's warmth.

And the same…
And the same…

She is a fraud, she tells herself,
And she files the thought away
With the oath she studied, practiced, and abandoned
When the money became more important,
When the people became names and numbers,
When the practices became mundane exercises.
She has killed, she fears, but what can you do?
You can simply obey the rules and tell yourself
You are doing the best you can.

And the same…
And the same…

The same grace blankets them all
If they care or not, if they admit it or not,
Freely offered, freely given, freely wasted.
To the liars, to the regretful, to the unredeemable,
Wrapping itself around the shoulders
Of pariahs and frauds, preachers and role models,
Salving wounds deeper than acknowledged,
Cleaning cuts more jagged than admittable.
Anything less could not be grace.

And the same…
And the same…

© 2004 Sean Taylor

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