Still Life

Still Life
by Timothy Reed



This vase of flowers
sits on our table
reminding me of the
didactic still life
that every student of
color must regurgitate.

It’s a funny term, “still-life”
as though life could ever
be held still.
These days, I take
a different sense
from that bouquet
with sun-yellow faces
smelling of apology.

Life is not stopped - it is
still: persistent and unkillable.
Life is try after bloody try,
as we try to find the way.
Life is still loving,
still forgiving,
still being willing
to start again.

Perhaps that’s the value
of still life:
if you persevere,
the flowers of meaning
will unfold to greet you.

Impatient Lullabies

Impatient Lullabies
by Timothy Reed



As sky blazes blue overhead
and fresh-poured coffee cools
I stand and sway, suddenly
aware of every ache and pain
staring at the open eyes of my son.
My son who, by no fault of his own
cannot grasp the will to sleep.

The stage has been set -
the shades, darkened
cozy pajamas provided,
white-noise softly droning,
a safe and soft bed.
Everything is in place but me,
my heart far from rest and
mind far from present,
singing impatient lullabies.

I think every child
is a sort of detective
by nature.

My son has me under the lights
and sees the no in my eyes
as my lips say yes. My son,
whose innate expertise
can sense the blips
on my polygraph.

When I want to take offense
at this subtle inquisition,
his hand grasps mine
and tells me the truth.

Above all else, he asks
those most basic of human needs:
love, honesty, consistency.