contingent

 

contingent

by Tim Reed

I used to say
creativity is contingent on conflict
so why have I been so dry
when all that’s within is conflict? 
that critical pressure
on which I used to rely
and by which, let words fly
has failed me
and I’m left in the swirling mass
of my tangled thoughts and desires

maybe I can’t create because the fight 
is myself versus myself
like the blocked barrel of a gun backfires
like a car with a jammed tailpipe —
the explosions that used to propel
now just propagate pain and inaction
and maybe the reason I feel directionless
is because it’s hard to steer a stopped car

and I’m stuck in the reality 
of where I am, which is far from what I wanted
so far from where I’d imagined
and I’m so tired of sweeping up broken dreams
tired of tossing them in the street
to pave the way for those who actually
get there. 

if sweat equity could ever be enough
I’ve paid
I’ve paid 
I’ve paid
I’ve pleaded and plotted
and hustled and hurried
and just ended up filling bubbles and filing forms
sucking down the last drops of my naive determination
while I drag myself through this endless cycle

what I once thought was a mountain to climb
has been scaled by the roulette table for others
and here I am, adrift and sweating in drifts of snow
miles below the summit and wondering
if I could live with myself, even if I could make it back down
but I know I couldn’t
I never could
I never will
And maybe it’s a grace the snow covers those it’s killed
so I can’t see the wreckage of my cold companions
brought to ruin on this peak

I’m not looking for pity —
I’ve sampled enough of that delicacy
to know the platitudes and expressed gratitude
are just a panacea meant to pacify
this gnawing ache in my gut
but it burns and bubbles and is never satisfied
all I want to do is discover
why. 

But I’ve written for years 
that ends are not always clear
and maybe my job is to stop reaching so high
and just live in the moment
but it’s hard to understand why
and I feel so done with wrestling 
 the muscle-bound doubts of my own mind’s eye
that’s strained and stretched to see 
but maybe I’ve been blind. 

All I know is that simple peace and happiness,
which seems so easily grasped by others 
feels like the dark hole of burying my head in sand
And in such a small space it’s easy to see
but I can’t help but wonder if I was constructed differently
why contentment is such a challenge
I long for simplicity, but maybe it’s just because I’m so tired
of myself. 

I used to say 
creativity is contingent on conflict
so I hope that my pen reflects
the war-zone inside my head. 

Keeper of the Dead

Keeper of the Dead
by Timothy Reed


I am the Speaker for the Dead:
the Keeper of the Dead
and Dying. 


the only gift I can give
is to walk with them
to that dark door
and fasten it gently
Once they have passed


I am the Keeper of the Dead, 
and the Dying seek me out. 


I keep the Dead,
for I cannot bear to let them go. 

Noblesse Oblige

Noblesse Oblige
by Timothy Reed

the cold, crisp night is an old foe
that presses and presses

as dying men see life in stark relief
the stars come into focus
he has hacked the moon to a steel sliver
but his blade has not yet touched our veins 

imminent

the final meal
the final rites
the final requests
before the final breath

there is an autumnal noblesse oblige to it 
as he grants color to each leaf
'ere it is cast to a common grave

Trampling Death by Death

Trampling Death by Death

by Timothy Reed

I have known joy

but am more at home with sorrow

in memory of a long night

my eyes squint, suspicious of dawn

as I remember you

you breathed your last - gave your spirit

(saturday)

then you took life as a crown

and snapped the neck of death

but on the day between

I visit her grave, and weep

 (for this parenthesis)

while my mother is but ash 

caged in stone

Sunday is coming

(saturday dwindles daily)

Sunday is coming

Underfoot

Underfoot

by Tim Reed 

let him rest

let him lie

let him sleep

till he die

'neath grass

'neath foot

'neath flower

'neath root

Cyclops

Smaug

Atlas

Og

Demise.

little mice

little mice

fie! 

fie!

gnawing

prancing

tickling

say

"come play, come play"

they shout all day

vermin! 

vermin!

pretty little feet

nasty weasel eye

spry as spring

bitter as a lie

let him sleep

let him lie

let him rest

'till he die

let him snore

lest he roar

and may time 

spin his cord

spin, dole, and cut

spin, dole, and cut

when he last draws his breath

and descends to his death

 the mice all mourn

and I them scorn

picador!
picador! 

let me live

let me walk

free from mice

free from talk

free from ropes

free from chains

free from guilt

free from blames

let him rest

let him lie

let him sleep

till he die

let him stay

far from eyes

let him rot

ne'er to rise! 

*Picador - a bullfighter on horseback who pricks the bull with a lance to goad it

Clinic

Clinic

by Timothy Reed

The cupboards stood in ranks

Symmetrical 

White as death-faces

Pegged eyes staring

in vacant malice

The table is flat and white

Like an unwritten book

Feigning innocence, charity 

Blank scroll stretches smooth as snow 

before a foot says “no more”

Soap, soap, soap

Scrubbing the scars, scabs

It loves raw things, open things

no warm, unsanitary memories will be left,

tolerated - all are effaced, eroded

And I smile and say something polite

Signing, smiling, signing again 

I would run, but for these wretched pink walls

Pink as cotton candy

Flat as a pressed shirt

My stomach turns

But my feet cannot

escape the white halls

the white faces

the white walls

and that pink - mocking pink

reeling me in like some hooked fish

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

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

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

Fertilizer

Fertilizer 

by Tim Reed

May my old life

Eyes forever darkened 

bestow its flesh to the ground

that, by its sleep

it may grant

Sustenance to the new

And may the new

as a sapling 

be unstained by all

That made death needful 

Vanity

Self-love

Mistrust

- the death of these is life's brew

Against the Dream

Against the Dream

by Tim Reed

the fool daily adds a belief

the wise daily subtracts

the weak, a product of addition

the strong, a product of loss

That Which We Bury

 

 

That Which We Bury

by Tim Reed

that which we buried

is not dead

but, obscured

waits

to grace the earth

below dismal skies

who,

unbeknownst

long for

bright seed-leaves

to banish

a grey presage

Death Mask

Death Mask

by Tim Reed

the Sun

in fading vibrancy

grants the clouds

its dying

colours