Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
It’s.
It’s who?
It’s the twelfth volume of Quickwords, my poetry series! Welcome, all, and happy reading!
| As the door is to the hall |
| It is said often with a prophet’s tongue the adage That when one door is to close Another is to open Heed the augurs’ proverb and know That the doors care not for each other’s shut and ajar But in an infinite maze of hallways There will always be a welcoming threshold Duty lies with the weathered hunter For none shall be a guide save one’s own eyes and feet |
| When the door opens |
| When the door opens A framing beam of light shines through And it’s a bit easier to see the dust floating in the air beside the bookshelf When the door opens A tiny draft of chilly air kicks in And turns the page of the novel on my lap before I’m done reading When the door opens Thumping footsteps shake the floor And everywhere, tranquil waters tremble within their glasses When the door opens The silence falls to angered command And the fire, always one to whisper pleasantries, hushes until a leatherbound soul enters its burning embrace |
| The Graceful Descent of Morgan Yaeger Keyes |
| A defiant little set of keys with the audacity to relent at the gate to rest As if it, not having done anything since morning, Not having walked miles and talked wild, worked hard and worked hard, Held any right to refuse the sole purpose of its momentary summons I watch, defeated, as it swan dives from my hand Seeming an Olympic athlete, smiling and waving to its working class parents Before performing an irritatingly elegant departure A graceful descent, wisping through the evening air Nearly in slowfall, delicate music echoing from the heavens Perhaps an angelic, dreadful soprano reminiscent of one’s final moments The woven threads of time coursing around its momentous plunge As if a falling star, lost from celestial divinity But more truthfully like a pancake you drop because the handle of your pan breaks My tired eyes sink to the ground as the keys thud, jingling with exasperating volume And I think only one thing: “Bruh.” |
