Every other Friday,
With my paycheck in my hand,
I headed to the savings bank,
Exactly like I’d planned.
I’d cash the check, depositing
A bit so it would grow,
Reflected in my passbook
Where the interest would show.
That Lincoln Savings Bank is now
An upscale toddler gym,
Survival rates for local banks
Now, sadly, kind of slim.
Direct deposit also changed
The way most folks get paid
And I’m not sure that passbooks,
Nowadays, are even made.
Yet I remember feeling
So grown-up with that fresh check,
Never thinking it would be replaced
By banking done by tech.
My Dear Man, please step within and then, are you doing well?
Are you okay? What about the little ones and all?
After the casual conversational preceded for a while, the mounted photograph on the white wall
I showed the photograph to my enthusiasm , a paying guest
'This is my junior, no longer within us,
who drowned in our village pond
about three years ago from now, noontime on a busy summer with the caw caw of all these crows!'
Easy an utterance paved so easily
No inflection, nothing much in vocal modulation
no more deep sigh, no more brimming eyes
And the voice my own ,
came back to shiver say , shivers a , she verse a succinct staid , cold snow time
Three years, only three years
mesh weaved the intricate between all these
even then erstwhile, the cacophony, voice over
dragged out my mourning river to leave alone a speedy saga of depositing silt
Whence the invitees are all gone, stood once more to ponder
before the photograph, to face questions, suppressing sorrow
Behind the frame, my son gazed at me, with no anger, with no grudges at all.
_Shamsur Rahman
I saw your lips moving ever so infrequently.
There was silence; yet I heard you.
I also beheld your eyes. They were open
wide, wisely listening to every word.
I could feel the sponges of your heart
absorbing every drop of insightful wisdom
that fell from the lips of your elders.
You were silent; yet I felt you.
Your visit was in no way coincidental,
nor was it a happenstance experience.
It was a divinely orchestrated affair.
There was that echo of your presence.
Although silent, yet I heard volumes.
Over the years, you will reach back
and draw from the treasury that God
placed, depositing it for your young lives.
The seeds that were planted in those
precious and fleeting hours are being
rooted in your heart and soul. In time,
like waves rushing to the shores, your
voice will then be heard by a hurting world.
Those seeds are designed to produce
a wealth of nourishment to assist in the
navigation to your destiny. It just a part
of God's plan to aid you in your journey.
It's all because He loves you.
Renewal of faith at dawn
Despair as day dwindles to dusk
Ascension with the rise of the moon ~
Depositing my soul with the Almighty soon
Goodness doesn't always inspire,
Or worth too much in the world's desire
Despite its benevolent attire.
Its value is stored as treasure,
Stacked up like gold per heaven's measure.
Goodness is for you to spend
On earth, like a gardener tends
Overflowing vines and flowers,
Depositing seed for God's eternal bowers.
The headline read: “Low deposits and fair repayments!”
The offer of a lifetime, the promise of a lifeline for you and those you love.
But “deposits” aren’t just in money when we’re low in depositing care,
“repayments” still reek of capitalism when many don’t see their “fair” share.
The advertisement seared in bold font and burning lettering,
reminding us to always want more – there’s nothing worse than settling.
His was a lifetime
spent grabbing
storing
stashing
garnering
stealing
collecting
depositing
amassing...
try-try-trying to fill
his soul hole carved deep
from a youth
from a poverty
of having nothing.
But all was but a sinkhole
each stash
more greedy-desperate
and heavier
than the last.
In the end
all was as nothing
An aggradation,
too heavy
for the man
to carry forward,
Sinking down with him
now buried
and forgotten.
‘Tis said,
A man is remembered
for what he gives,
Not for what he takes.
"Felt"
some people
have magic
in their bones
it speaks
another language
silencing the
Kurdaitcha Man
seen pointing
unnecessarily
without conviction
time is ours
in this endless place
we circle rings
rippling our marks
deep within trees
depositing stories
they breathe
us in
we breathe
them out
gifting
their leaves
we fall softly
crumpling
under others’ feet
the stories
conveyed
and transferred
replenish and feed
the microcosm
to become
something
much larger
some people
have magic
in their bones
it speaks
another language
it is felt
not seen
falling softly inside
we become lighter
rising like myths
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
under a delightful moon
air silvermist due to drizzling rain
a pale patina rode wavetops
of the mystic sea
creamy waters washed across my feet
depositing opaline conchs, whelk egg cases
and bits of purple fan coral
oceanic generosity
fueled my thankfulness
as the horizon's apricot blush
announced sunrise
The wind rushes by me
Teasing in its’ pass
Sometimes caressing
Sometimes bold and crass
Then, moving onward
It hugs a maple tree
Some leaves of brilliant hue
Are tumbled and set free
It moves across a field
A wind-wave there is seen
It kisses blades of grass it finds
And all that’s in between
Dandelion parachute seeds
Ride its’ hidden tides
Depositing them here and there
New life therein resides
And I? I stand in wonder
And watch the scene unfold
Knowing I’ll not comprehend
What through my eyes I’m told
I’ve taken it for granted,
The Wind, its’ master plan
Proving, once again,
The insignificance of man.
Debit
Liable, obligatory
Owing, paying, pledging
Indebtedness, deficit, salary, bonuses
Receiving, banking, depositing
Affluent, prosperous
Credit
April 28, 2021
Morning Sounds
by M. Griswold
06212000
I awake in the morning to all kinds of sounds.
First of which is me, snoring profound.
Next usually comes a burp and a fart ,
but generally speaking, I can't tell them apart.
Then comes the alarm clock ringing at me,
causing screams of confusion momentarily.
Banging frantically in the half darkened dawn,
I cuss to put an end to its clanging loud gong.
My other half rolls over and groans,
then lets out a big fart all of her own.
Sniffing in self violation she painfully moans.
God help the poor fella that shares her home.
A symphony of flushing can soon be heard
as we each take our turns at depositing turds.
Followed closely by snorting and hacking
as we clear our nasals of the snots unpacking.
A chorus of gargling, bad breath to be cured.
A shrill sheik or two of reflections mirrored.
Brushing of teeth brings that wash board effect.
Then the spattering of paste in the sink to eject.
After all that audio abuse, we finally arrive at this,
the best morning sound of all, a first morning kiss.
It makes it all worth the torture and horror to ears.
Of all those god awful sounds made over the years.
it wasn’t the measured meanness
nor the pig blood
nor the rampage of Carrie’s revenge
but the quiet walk
to the graveyard
depositing flowers
remembering the saint...forgetting the maelstrom
§
§
§
§
§
as the grub-filled hand erupts through the soil
to impale one more victim.
the grave has no conscience.
10/31/2019
Once Again
Waves crash upon the sands on a still lonely beach
Raging water stretching out as far as it could reach
Depositing all things caught within it’s powerful hand
Then solemnly retreats, leaving soft ripples in the sand
The sounds, such a mesmerizing effect for all to hear
From each crash, each wave, whitish of foam disappears
Then again, gaining strength, again the wave starts to roll
Crash again upon the sands, each cycle taking it’s toll
Each crash, water depth creeping closer inward to shore
Each wave, rolling of thunder, different from the one before
Each return, eroding sand, uncovering some lost life forms
Each cycle, within all earths violent tidal thunderstorms
Once again her thunderous sound fills the air
Once again she retreats, sights extraordinaire
Once again, this cycle repeats one more time
Once again, within this universal paradigm
O
N
C
E
A
G
A
I
N
Sweat and the sea are salty
and alike.
A lazy man and a corpse
never sweat.
Mountaineers mount up the
slithery mounts.
Resistance yields, dissolving
in sweat.
Seeds sprout in the fallen beads,
life-drops.
Success floats in sweat, depositing
fresh joys.
Each victory in the history sparkles
through sweat.
First published in The Literary Hatchet (Pear Tree Press, US)
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