toss anger, he said
into the bin of waste
waste not mankind’s love
with abuse and bite
the bullet skies
high the eagle flies
why not the steeple
less with feathers flocked
why not the pews on
threadbare knees
that knock and palms
close touch of closed
and ethereal eyes, in shock
of amazing blue, far above
the whizzing bell of shots
some fell, some rise
both have a knell and sigh
anger flung like monkey dung
lay upon the sheetrock roof
its lies are born and cradled
evil has a childhood, is able
to wean and crawl, to fall
toss anger, he spoke
to the deaf and blind
they never woke nor wised
up. six feet downer done
swept into the bin of waste
a godforsaken life
God Around the Corner
By Mark D. Stucky
My cat’s favorite spot to sleep and surveil the house
was at the top of the hallway-to-basement stairs.
I would sometimes stealthily lie down on the floor
just around the hallway corner from her and wait.
No matter how quiet I tried to be,
she soon peeked around the corner,
her curious face mere inches from mine,
delighted at her discovery.
We had also been inches apart just moments before
but blocked by an optical barrier of spliced sheetrock.
Although she couldn’t see me,
she could sense my nearness.
Her cat’s curiosity caused her
to investigate my presence.
If we are quiet and still enough,
can we feel God’s unseen nearness
just around the mystical corner
of everyday earthly existence?
If we follow spiritual senses,
can we come “face to face” with the divine?
(First published in Agape Review, 11 June 2023. See also my poems “Consider the (Dreaming) Birds” and “Jurassic Prayer.”)
(Image by Sebastian Molina fotografía on Unsplash.com.)
Sitting this morning
head in hand
starting at my bedroom wall;
I remember my mother
sitting like this
her tired eyes
boring holes into the sheetrock
or the streetlight
outside our house
I remember my mother
sitting like this,
I would ask her
what is it Mumma?
what are you thinking of?
And she would reply
nothing, oh nothing,
and she would get up
to get some more coffee
or to think some more
from the kitchen window
Sitting like this
head in hand
in the mornings
boring my own holes
into my own sheetrock wall
or the telephone polls
outside my window,
now I know
what nothing is.
A Wooden Riddle
I walk through walls,
but I'm not dead.
(as they are unfinished)
I try to keep the plans,
locked in my head.
From the morning I wake up,
until the time I hit the bed.
Sheetrock,
green board,
sand block
whitewash!
A new life...
for a young man
following his God,
the "true carpenter".
Speed square all's fair,
math done in pencil.
Left on the wall,
before painting.
The magic of building,
with hands guided;
can not be anything,
less than >
art.
I came from a land of redneck drinkers, who mounted deer heads on walls without sheetrock. It was a simpler time. You shot or hooked what you ate. A wood stove heated the whole house. It ran on bottled propane when wood was scarce. I can still smell the blackening butter and hear the purple-red deer meat sizzling in Gram’s cast-iron fry pan on that day. I can see the knife gash in the imprint of flowers on the homemade butter. Its beauty marred to lather the pan as mine had been. Each day since then, as I knelt on the chair staring past the potted violets toward the house next door, I'd shiver.
whispers
breach the bedroom walls:
chain-locked door
I came from a land where, through a picture perfect window, a little girl could see rows of candy-colored gladiola’s growing beside the home of the neighbor boys. The boys whose Father liked to flash his private parts to little girls. No, this was not the end of the yellow brick road, but the land of bullies, beer, and ******** pedophiles, far from picture perfect.
Looking at his house
He sees nothing special
A pile of wood and sheetrock
Bigger than others
But he owes more than it’s worth
His house is underwater
A term he doesn’t understand
In real speak the house belongs to the Bank
To the brokers and the lawyers.
Wanting a piece of the American dream
He misrepresented himself
Taking crumbs from the table
So to speak
Fudging a number here
Adding a zero there
The smart money said it was alright
Don’t worry they told him
Everybody’s doing it.
He and his wife were barely making it
Hoping just to hang in there
Things would get better
They kept telling themselves
But it was too good to be true
The economy went south
Things went wrong
Lost a job
The bills piled up
He and the wife stopped talking
Broke, he feels pushed aside.
There are two sides to every lie
And in this one
There’s a bill somewhere
That’s long overdue
And so my friend
It will have to be paid by me and you.
There’s a piece of sheetrock in my aunts house.
That’s newer than the rest of the pieces.
It hasn’t experienced the joyful times
The rest of the ceiling has.
I remember the days when life was normal,
Before that orange extension cord came into our lives.
My uncle bought it real cheap at a garage sale.
He said it was a bargain! He loved that extension cord.
Well, that bargain played a savage role that would plaque
The rest of our natural lives in the months that followed.
It was an Autumn morning,
boy, how I love brisk mornings.
I stay up all night just to catch the morning sun.
I’ve always done this, ever since I can remember heck, I guess I always will.
A call came that early morning,
I felt on the inside something was wrong.
It wasn’t normal for our phone to ring so early.
My cousin spent that night tallying up his list of unfortunate events.
I was suppose to spend the night, but I didn’t.
The issues of that day, drove him to take my uncles bargain
and bust the sheetrock from the ceiling.