She is curled up on the swing
her thumb, merely a cigar-like stub, firmly planted in her mouth
her sea glass eyes being irrigated to the brim with frigid tears
her knuckles a pallid colour.

She turns to me, our juvenile minds connecting in quick moments
and her mouth becomes briefly ajar
before remembering that she is suffering
that she cannot speak.

We sit in utter stillness
her in her grief
and I in my instability
my curiosity burning, but my conscience telling me to remain silent.

Before I can find the courage to ask what happened,
she awakens from her mute state,
her 6-year-old eyes seeing unimaginable pain
yet nothing at all.

“He’s gone,” she murmurs
and I know.

The Last Fight Wasn’t

They were bullies,
Nothing less, nothing more.
Strong arm types that take your lunch money.
Follow you around any time you left the house,
Follow you to the movies to the grocery store.
Getting on your case, cause you won’t lay down,
Won’t let them rule the day, punks.

The bag of ice was heavy,
Cold on my chest and arms.
Walking fast trying to stay ahead of them,
Hoping home will come up fast,
Finally be rid of them.

Mama, Mama standing in the front door,
Mama holding me.
“Tell these guys to leave me alone.”
“You boys stay right there”
My son will be right out
To whip all your butts.”

Keith Rhodes

Cedar boughs make superb seats
Somehow frittering away August days
Beneath a pungent canopy of shade.
They give just enough
That the tricking brook tickles your foot
But no so much as to soak it.

This is my home away from home.
The sky can’t peak in.
This is where I’m anyone but myself.
I can be that person anywhere.
Here, I rifle through my mind’s costume box
Until the familiar, distant cry announces supper.

March 10, 2009

Prose:
They put me in a coffin-shaped wooden box and expected me to get better.

Stanza 1:
A little brown box full of steam was my home
Set me free, I plead – set me free.
Long weeks I lie there, afraid and alone
While I struggle to breath and I cry and I groan
But nobody sets me free.

Prose:
They put me in a coffin-shaped wooden box and expected me to get better.

Stanza 2:
Two small glass panels run down the sides
Let me see. I plead – let me see
But the steam blurs the scene – it’s just shadows for me
While I struggle to breath and I long just to see
But I’m in the box and my eyes are not free

Prose:
They put me in a coffin-shaped wooden box and expected me to get better.

Stanza 3:
Away from my family the box was my home
Take me home I plead – take me home.
Long weeks I lie there, afraid and alone
While I struggle to breath and I cry and I groan
And at last, they took me home

Prose:
Did they think the wooden coffin had helped me live?
No.
They sent me home to die.

But I didn’t.

I was scared and I cried,
Every time they started.
In my room i hid,
Trying to block out all the noises.

Not able to fall asleep,
Not knowing why,
They acted this way,
Until it dawned upon me

Married,
Husband and Wife,
They are in love,
A feeling I dont want to find.

the tree sat there every day and night
it wispered to the wind
and it killed all the light

then while we were all sleeping
the sky started crying
and the clouds started creeping

out of nowhere the clouds stabed the tree,
with a bright jagad sword
and the tree fell with a loud plea

It split right down the heart
and burnt to a crisp
while half was left standing,
on the ground was the other part

I was the first to find it
lying on the ground
the sun shone bright,
as my fingers traced where the tree split

a tear fell from my eye
as I stared at my old friend
a tear of pain, and gratitude
for if it had fallen the other way,
I wouldn’t be standing heere today