The Untruth Of A Lone And Erroneous Prophecy
What has a prophetic death done to this poor soul
the merest thought of sleeping under freshen sod
stir the urgent flames, hefting in more Irish coal
is it true Fate will soon strike me with angry rod?
Shall the sky its higher heavens thus so soon part
or maybe earth will hear, spit open a new grave
My dearest angel, fear not, still thy fearful heart
Faith and Truth will issue edits to my heart save!
Hold certainty, my life is to ever flow on
And honey-cast dawn wake to me love ever-more
Yes, you shall sing in your sweeter romantic tone
As we in our bliss dine on paradise's gold shores.
There is no dark that can easily take my life.
Fate cries out, you will be my ever-faithful wife.
Robert J. Lindley, dark sonnet
Jul 1 27th, 1977
Note. True story, a woman predicted my early demise when I was just 23 years old.
Hmm. I am 69 years old now, somebody missed by a few years.
Categories:
hefting, art, fate, girlfriend, life,
Form: Sonnet
Father is a stump grinder,?
a heavy planter. Shovel fingers?
bulling through onions and leeks.?
Truck-hands lashed to maroon suspenders.?
Head in the dirt, a blue exhaust?
trailing from grub-working teeth,?
hefting clumps and yellow ***-ends,?
raising clammy clay blooms.?
?
Mother is a house,?
most of it closed.?
Sometimes an upper window opens.?
net-curtains fly out of gray eyes.?
A girl-ghost locked in a bottle,?
?
She lifts me up on a dangle?
of faith to her bedroom.?
A mahogany night-dresser?
tucks away her dreams.?
She has closets, drawers?
where lovers doze.?
She whispers, less they all awaken.?
?
Outside, father crashes through turnips.?
Mother bleeds bitter-root?
from nub bitten fingernails.?
She pushes her child into rooms?
called 'buried-lost, buried-found'.?
The dead are everything –?
she copes not with the living.?
?
Later I listen to father grunt over her,?
as he spades a blinded moon?
between her broken fences.
Categories:
hefting, poetry,
Form: Free verse
It snowed last night;
taking out the trash,
there I am, dozing in a garden swing set
deep within July.
It could be another year.
July in a London park
lying next to her,
wisps of gentleness in a public place,
dandelion seeds parachuting upwards.
Snow falls onto my eyelids.
The trash I am hefting
is from Madrid
there are straw hats and the ruins
of several cathedrals in it.
It should be heavier
but the Iberian condors add a weightlessness
to all things too heavy to bear
across a snowy backyard asphalt.
Chill bones rattle on the swing set,
icicles weep from its wrought iron frame.
She is singing in the kitchen,
coral lips savoring what she has yet to cook.
A skein of geese are crossing over
heaped frozen spires.
Summer shorts and a T
rustle in a summer breeze, then freeze.
Categories:
hefting, poetry,
Form: Free verse
My world had the same aspects as my life.
Its spaces were roughly the size of a fine ship.
Its spirit was comparable to that of a wooden knife.
There are clouds and snow in the skies tied by a clip.
The motion of stars and galaxies in the universe
The elevators, rail lines, various planes, and donkeys.
A physical item rotates and returns to its source.
Our lives were full of topics that sought to address.
Witnessing people who lived long or short lives.
At the same time, the extent of people" s ideals differ.
The difficulty "who do I desire to be as I grow up?".
The unusual answer was, "I view to focus on myself."
I'm stumbling through the darkness of ignorance.
People never acquire this away from their life on Earth.
They leave nothing behind except for their voice.
And corpses are buried deep underground after death.
I've lived and smiled; I've had a life and laughed around it.
It is firm to return and unmake errors that we made.
My focus is on the unseen; the scope of people's lives deviates.
My memory of the 500,000 corpses will never fade.
Categories:
hefting, anger, anxiety, confusion, fear,
Form: Rhyme
on my six
the village faded in my past
when at last i walked through the gate
for the final time
neither of us remained the same
as we were in the days of my coming of age
back then the colours were brighter
our laughter was lighter
with all my possessions on my back
in my Dad's old navy pack
i paused at the end of the road by the wall
which today is not so tall
as it was then
i stared at the old rough stones
long ago discoloured and beaten
by wind and rain
to the left the bend curved right
and out of my sight
a couple hundred yards down
where when we were all young
we sneaked a peek when
colin flarety was "courting"
the miller twins from across the field
to the right straight and true
narrowing down to a pin point in the far distance
shadowed by the morning mist
that hung heavy
after the night's storm
hefting my Dad's sea bag
i headed left
maybe just to see if anything had changed.
Categories:
hefting, farewell,
Form: Free verse
Father is a stump grinder,
a heavy planter. Shovel fingers
bulling through onions and leeks.
Truck-hands lashed to maroon suspenders.
Head in the dirt, a blue exhaust
trailing from grub-working teeth,
hefting clumps and yellow ***-ends,
raising clammy clay blooms.
Mother is a house,
most of it closed.
Sometimes an upper window opens.
net-curtains fly out of gray eyes.
A girl-ghost
not yet locked in a bottle,
waves above my head.
She lifts me up on a rope
of sunshine, to her bedroom.
A mahogany night-dresser
tucks away secret hugs.
She has closets, drawers
where lovers doze.
She whispers, less we all awaken.
Outside father crashes through turnips.
Mother bleeds moss
from nub bitten fingernails.
She pushes a child into rooms
called buried-lost, buried-found.
The dead are everything –
she copes not with the living.
She is a draining board.
I am a basin.
Mother scrubs with red knuckles,
until I pour and curl
by her porcelain sink.
Later I listen to father grunt over her,
as he spades
a reluctant moon
between broken roots.
Categories:
hefting, poetry,
Form: Blank verse