the spire

the spire
by Timothy Reed

the spire smiled

smugly

at commonplace

concrete

and basic

brick

(to say nothing of its

foundation forefathers)

refusing to acknowledge its

smudged patrons of

loftiness 

Contend

Contend

by Timothy Reed

it was only the other day

I passed a small garden

asleep for the winter, barren

and above saw a mother and child

locked in heated contention

and I thought to myself, "It is good

that our days are numbered

marred as they are by discord 

and warring wills."

Creation groans.

Amuse Me

Amuse Me

by Timothy Reed

In swaths of grass

tail twitching like a dying snake

"Amuse me, amuse me"

Eyes lit by wanton instinct

of feline forebears

Into sea-green glass you looked

fixated

(also admiring your coat, impeccably cleaned)

waiting for a scaled offering

to enter your display case

and suddenly

a glint beneath

and claws flash

water crumples like cloth

confused gills furiously working the air

(like a spider, run out of silk

madly spinning old Solutions)

shocked, you stare

at the fruit of your hunting

no longer so appealing

and so you trot off

meowing,

back to the certainty of your

daily milk saucer

but in the grass, caprice is no option

in this present immutability

"Amuse me, amuse me"

Timex

Timex

by Timothy Reed

on my wrist rests

dead man's watch face

hawk eyes watching

this unproven successor 

so far my only inheritance 

is that these hands,

blunt-tipped and elephant-grained,

begin to resemble his

perhaps I will someday 

deserve this legacy

Ode to Jemma

Ode to Jemma

by Timothy Reed

every day my

collie dog shoots

like a marksman's

arrow into 

blackness, caring 

not a moment

 for the unknown

 of the hallway

Book release! "My Window Faces South" is available!

BIG NEWS! I'm really excited to be able to tell you about my NEW BOOK - "My Window Faces South", now available on Amazon. I've spent the last few months compiling, editing, and arranging around 50 of my favorite poems to put in this collection. I hope you enjoy it! 

Shoutout to Bethany René Mark​ for the incredible coverart! Make sure to drop over and subscribe to her blog "With Favor & Fight​"

 if you haven't already! 

Head over to Amazon to order a copy - they're only $7.50! 

https://www.amazon.com/Window-Faces-South-Timothy-Reed/dp/197334243X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1513267511&sr=8-1&keywords=my+window+faces+south+timothy+reed

safe

safe
by Timothy Reed




t'was nigh unto sundown

when I passed your lane

indigo and crimson

warring for celestial dominance

in cloudy battlegrounds

and I saw your white-picket house,

like a movie-screen

alive with the glory above

smirking, smiling

the windows shuttered

the doors thrice-barred

the very model of security

and all round the yard, the baby's breath

whispered

"safe, safe"

it was only then that I

happened to notice a small

pocket of shadow by your stoop

a pocket no larger than a forgotten memory

and indeed it was

or it had been 

(and sunset suggested "will be again")

and there, dressed to the nines

stood a man with fair form

soft features and kind eyes

who, all the while

was breathing words

"charity, comfort"

but whose feet

lived in puddles of

bones

blood

carnage

blackest death

and I marveled at this

essential dissonance

and I wondered what
violence
debauchery
or hatred
that man must 
espouse - evangelize

and so I craned my neck
turned my ear
to hear what he muttered
beside your doorstep


"did he really say?"

"will he keep his word?" 

"am I his keeper?"

"does it make sense?"

and there he 
waited, watched
never loud, never loud
until sun died

and you
unlatched, unfastened
undid, unbarred
lifting locks, latches 
and bade him enter
and dine
dine
dine

and all round the yard, the baby's breath

whispered

"safe, safe"

Cortez

Cortez

by Tim Reed

red on black

red on blue

dense

smoke pluming

salt

water hissing

leaving no recourse

but Progress

Trust, Trust

Trust, Trust

by Tim Reed

Trust, Trust

it's all I hear

but your hands

are beat bloody

with backup plans

I rather think the earth

rests on turtle-back

Sand-Crab and Scarab

Sand-Crab and Scarab

By Tim Reed

    It was at an antiques store. Or at least I think it was. Some squat building along the Oregon coast hiding between two taller nondescript stores, like a sand crab hiding from a gull. I move about, beneath brown-shell ceiling, sorting through some scattered bones of some forgotten past. There’s a stale smell in this mausoleum, as though these objects are being held in a vat of ether. Coke bottles, gilt porcelain, and flowered postcards seem naked and exhumed under the pale sea-green fluorescent bars. I am both repulsed and seduced by theses shelves, racks, and buckets of kitsch – like a child staring at the blackened flesh of a mummy. I too, stare at that necrotic form, waiting to see if those lids will open. But of course, they’re only antiques. Only antiques.

     Absentmindedly, I flipped through a long wooden tray of old medicine posters and Norman Rockwell Americana. Some cheap stereo obscured by jumbled booths plays some cheap radio station filled with noisy ads and the routine, four-chord anthems. I shifted my weight and stifled a yawn. Some glitter of blue glass caught my eye, and I glanced up. As I broke my vigil, the mummy’s lids grated open. Then, he caught me in his gaze – locked and immobile as stone. Black, hatched lines on a humble lithograph reflected my soul-face. On a barren field, there I was with knee bent. In my arms, the most sacred weight. I try, but I can’t see my face – it’s turned away, riveted upon hers. Two or three feet away, I see the strange fruit of my labor. Six feet by four feet by six feet, the ground has opened its mouth in a yawn. But the somnolent dirt is patient and no stranger to grief. Her face is young, but frightfully pale. How, I do not know, for there isn’t a scrap of color to be seen on that page. But I know her, and her loss is almost too much to bear. The lids close, and suddenly I am back under that irreverent paneled ceiling.

     I can see the sandy brown hair of my sister over the top of the next booth. She rounds the corner. “There you are.” she says “I wondered where you’d gone off to. Have you seen the old records they have over in the corner?” I look up at her. “I think, Meg,” I shift my weight and struggle to compose my thoughts in a way that doesn’t sound absurd. “I think, Meg, that my life will be marked by some great tragedy.” I can tell she doesn’t quite know how to respond. I don’t know how to respond. I can tell she thinks it’s absurd. And it is. How could one lithograph in one squat crab-store in one beach hovel town signify any more than another grey day on the Oregon coast? But my ears are tuned to the unexceptional presage, the significance in the ordinary.

    Together, we laugh it off and make our purchases. My sister, with some tasteful sundries, of course. They’re gifts for family and friends. The holidays are still three months away, but she’s always frightfully efficient. I walk up to the counter with my scarab from this pharaoh’s tomb, cleverly disguised as a two dollar-fifty lithograph. Outside, the sun has set and far out in the onyx night I can hear the disconsolate waves rising and falling like buildings, men, and civilizations. A soft, cold rain dabs the dirt-stained streets like a mother cleaning the face of her child. But she can’t remove the crab from the sand or the scarab from my hand. She can’t remove that prophecy that my heart clings to with white knuckles. “I’ll need this later.” I say to myself. Where did I learn my future? It was an antiques store. Or at least I think it was. But it was more.

Spirit

Spirit

by Tim Reed

it is windy today
and

outside the

rocking chair sways

in clumsy imitation

of departed friend

but it is only the wind

1958 - 2016

1958 - 2016

by Tim Reed

craven
I stand at this wall
they say within your bones
 lay sleeping, still
but how could I know
when I did not see
inglorious crew
slide bone-box within?
all I can know is

this marble mirror will

reflect any face
but the one I wish

Photo by Veronika Balasyuk on Unsplash

15 Minutes

15 Minutes

by Tim Reed

it is hard for me

with each day sliced

to quarter-hour specificity 

to imagine the

Lord of time

dealing eons and millennia

but not as fishmonger

nor as realtor

but as one whose

brush graces yesterever with

cobwebbed strokes and

buttery recollections

and who drafts tomorrow

through watercolor of birth

and rich, garnet reds of

laughter

yes, it is hard for me

with each day sliced

to quarter-hour specificity

to comprehend

Why a Watermelon?

Why a Watermelon?

by Tim Reed

why a watermelon?

a sweater?

a son?

morning paper?

or afternoon tea?

all consume

ingest

expel

but only a few 

live

Pentecost

Pentecost

by Tim Reed

'Neath emerald 

branches 

boughs 

beams

They waited, breathing prayers of

laughter

'Till golden tongues 

sparked

sputtered 

spiraled

and rested o'er each head

and

October's night breeze

christened

New things

Word in the Dark

in the beginning

you brooded, hovered

o'er ink-black abyss

wings weaving lullabies

safe-guarding, keeping

(with maternal jealousy)

until breath broke silence

and light was born

and I can't help but wonder

do you still brood

over my dark and formless

present? 

and I wonder

what word will come?

(Painting by Mark Rothko, "Untitled 1968")

(Poem by Tim Reed, "Word in the Dark", (c) 2017)

Caprice

Caprice

by Tim Reed

Tomorrow waits

in rose-laden sky

until golden schoolmaster

blinks sullen eye

...and it skips down

down

down

into minds of men

toying, teasing, taunting

 with schoolgirl caprice

bestowing baubles

namely,

hopes and dreams 

Vending Machine

Vending Machine

by Tim Reed

if I must be

emptied

may it not be as a

vending machine - 

slave of convenience,

bound to the tyranny of

the urgent

soul sold piecemeal

to a thousand

disparate causes

Antidote

antidote

by Tim Reed

as salt on the tongue

goads water-desire

as snow-chilled bones

crave pillar of fire

may sharp contrast

of pain, dullness, or hate

propel us toward

The

Antidote

The Fly

The Fly

by Tim Reed

why does he

choose

cyanide
laced with sugar

over

a bitter twist of truth?

because he thirsts more for

sweetness

than for

life.

Deus Ex Machina

 Deus Ex Machina
by Tim Reed

snooze

and

deus ex machina
suddenly

faces of old friends

great souls

spurning the dissonance,

I inhale the rich aroma 

of your spiced hearts

take your hand, in joy

and sob

I've missed you 

but a million dirty hands

lay hold of me

and in my bed I lie

again 

wondering if my

deus ex machina

was

reprieve, or

regress

Desolation #8

Desolation #8

by Tim Reed

there is no return

from the future

spent calendar pages
hold us hostage

 father time keeps us

at arm's length

Arrivals & Departures

Arrivals & Departures

by Tim Reed

the boughs tossed

like

pieces of a broken dream

...the day you left

the heat sighed

and

gave the night 

a sickly sweet

...the night you departed

tell me,

how will it be

when we meet again?

Each Mind a World

Each Mind a World

by Tim Reed

it came to me that

each mind

is its own world, of a kind

same grey sphere from space

but, below

each

street,

store,

sepulcher,

sits or stands

in fierce individuality

One Day

One Day

by Tim Reed

ne  ay

 t  ast

 ife  ill  e  efined,

 o  ore  y

 ow  e  ompensate,

 ut  y

 urity.

I  ong  or  hat  ay.