Saturday, May 9, 2015

Mark Upon Stone

A crooked face,
Smile laced,
Brought to tears,
The long, dark, prayer,
Of lonely years.

Pillar of poise
Silenced by noise,
Crumbled low,
‘fore demonic foe,
Crippled with pain
Nothing but a name
A carcass of space
In the human race.

Eyes shaded dim,
Darkened grim,
A sunken face,
Of Fallen grace
Hopeless grin
Upon a limb
Staring calmly
Into an abyss of sin.

Upon the altar,
With naught to halt her.
Hand to the whip
Death within grip,
She takes a sip.
Inhaling slow,
Dreams once aglow
All the things,
The love, the life,
 She’ll never know.

Abandoned, wrecked,
Misery swept
Out to sea
To the promise of darkness
Where she shall flee

But never, ever
Will she be free.
All she’ll ever be
A mark upon stone
A tale of life little known
Hope blown.
Mind never grown.
Heart never shown.

Hand to the whip.
Life in her grip.
A Final plea
From the light 
she cannot see,
Don’t take the sip.
Don’t let it slip

Round the bend.
The open hand
Of a long needed friend.
This isn't the end,
Light will come.
I tell you darling,
It’s the darkness
That delivers the sun.
Yet, she doesn't wait,
She doesn't listen.
Instead, she choses
To destroy
The beauty given.

And with such a fate.
Closed becomes the gate.
The cessation of light
To the never-ending darkness of night

And all she'll ever be,
A mark upon stone,
Weathering beneath the sun.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

The Ball Game

I'm not sure what it is about baseball but I love it. I love the sound of it - the slow hum that cascades imperceptibly into a crescendo of action; the sharp clash of wood beating leather and the strong snap of the glove catching a fly ball. I love the cheers of the crowd and the buzz of the lights. Oh, the crackle of the radio in the dark heat of summer; how I love those old, deep voices that bring to life the story of the game; that open our hearts to the humble heroes of America's game - the original ball players.