Unsigned: the bullet that entered my chest
No sender’s name and no sender’s address
So be this my lot then I shall find peace
In knowing I died a hero at least
Go now my brothers and crush this assault
No man that dies here shall have died for naught
Each man who falls while still holding his gun
Dies for the freedom of all and of one
Bring woe to those who would snatch us from Earth
Under these skies that shall witness our worth
Linger a while should you face your life’s end
Lest you may rise up to bear arms again
*
Even ’pon seventy years here I stand
To honour the brave who fought for our land
A fresh diagnosis,
waiting to die
Time now unmortgaged,
foreclosure in sight
The documents present,
endorsement unsigned
Appraisal—reprisal,
the path freshly limed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2019)
A drowsy, white-feathered seagull was perched
on a coastal marine dock where boats and yachts
were anchored after a long fishing day;
he fell into a deep sleep instead of getting away...
while other brave seagulls continued
their flight over a sea of frenzied, shimmering waves.
I feared for his safety and running I screamed,
he suddenly woke up and started croaking...wondering
why a human being cared for him with an urge so alarming;
had he fallen in the deep waters below he would have died
and never would have felt how wonderful was the feeling
of living another afternoon of March so unusually mild.
This lovely unsigned canvas was given to me in June
by Joanna who searched Bellrose art thrift shops...
thinking of me as an art lover who appreciated artistic beauty,
I hung it up between two pictures with golden frames;
painters don't always create masterpieces of inestimable value,
many devote their time to paintings of simplicity.
Written on 7/7/2019
A Painting Unsigned
Written: by Tom Wright
December 2014
Rooftops, at dawn, were covered
With luminous frost,
Appearing today, professionally done
While I lay sleeping;
The grass and trees likewise being
Similarly embossed,
While from the east, a rising sun,
Is peeping;
To erase each rooftop, blade of grass,
And un-leafed tree,
It’s, as if, being nature’s giant eraser
It’s been assigned.
From previous occurrences this outcome
I can for-see,
God will let this splendid painting,
Go unsigned.
The miracle
The beauty
The scene
By the atheist
No less seen
The masterpiece
Without a master
11.29.18
For Anthony Slausin's
The Atheist - Poetry Contest
It was just a tiny scrap of paper that I found lying on the floor.
Who would leave a note for me, quietly slipped beneath the door?
A parchment of mystery unfolding in the shade of passionate red.
I searched for a clue of sender as the affectionate words I read.
"Soon I'll stand before you but this little note is my second choice.
I could not speak of love to you, for my thoughts could not find voice.
Although not written about a rose, nor fragile violets of blue,
not sweetened with sugar crystals, but know my love is true."
It was just a tiny scrap of paper without a hint from whom it came.
A rendered heart of crimson paper, romantically left without a name.
Hold my heart up for the world to see
Frame the furrows on my face
And revel in the character that they exude
Each crease a paragraph
Of the story thus far
A fauvist collection of lessons learned
Read deeper, between the bristled lines
To fully understand the relief
Each one etched by discontented happiness
Teeth without a smile
A portrait of fortitude
Of strength forged by unnecessary battles
A marked and scarred fortress
Erected by ever-watchful eyes
No more blood shall be shed
Time wasted being beaten by emotions
By brittle relationships
And iridescent infatuations
Hung out in front, still left unsigned
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