Artless

Artless

by Tim Reed

Who are you?

like a gale

s t r i p s

the branch

of its bark

like the worm

f e a s t s 

on the heavy heart

you have rendered me

...artless

Made. Unmade. Made

Made. Unmade. Made.

by Tim Reed

Sinews unwind

Bones dislodge

Veins flatten

Lungs collapse

Eyes darken

Ears deafen

...and somehow a cry not my own resonates in this frame

tears fall from this empty man

You formed me.

When I was unmade,

you made me again.

Mud

Mud

by Tim Reed

how could they know that

the mud

(through which it's been dragged)

bows

in sorrowful reverence

to

the Name?

Life Must Go On

Life Must Go On

by Tim Reed

I think,

maybe,

the reason people say

life.

must.

go.

on.

(such awful words)

is...

...because they wish it hadn't.

My Watchmen

My Watchmen

by Tim Reed

four prison guards

standing so tall

changing each minute

delicate muscles bulging

keep silent watch

bring me visitors

take away friends

keys bent, discarded

sentenced for life

my silent wardens

four simple numbers

Weak Wings Wait

Weak Wings Wait

by Tim Reed 

black paper quivering on white wings

frailty awaits mighty imputation

shelter from the circling hunters

dreams cling with white knuckles

inadequacy in stark relief

against pure strength and foundation

just as clear, the clarion's voice

"Steady, Steady, Steady"

"all is mine, and shall be yours"

weak wings wait

weak wings must wait

Matchsticks and Pebbles

Matchsticks and Pebbles 

By Tim Reed

How could I equate you with the glow of the sun?

A matchstick in a vast cathedral?

Or, more humorous still, your voice to the echo of thunder?

Mere pebbles falling on deaf ears?

Even if I look upon millions of stars unknown,

They are meaningless dust particles on a shelf.

Yet...

Here, in the whisper of intimacy,

You are unbound and unfathomable.

In the Spider's Web

In the Spider's Web

by Tim Reed

blessëd the pain, for it spake life's might

blessëd the struggle, for it promised swift flight

curse this vile numbness embracing me

curse this vile indifference - apathy

they are the spade biting the earth of the coffin-hole

they are the calculated diplomacy of a ruthless foe

and while silken vestments coo and soothe

fangs spite the lies and intentions prove

Mimicry

Mimicry

by Tim Reed

the smell of wet earth

the crack of distant thunder

signify more than an army of wedding bells

or a thousand brash headlines

What is Wisdom?

What is Wisdom? 

by Tim Reed

What is wisdom

but a collection of mugs

yellowed pages, softly waiting

tear-painted handkerchiefs

concert-tickets

a simple pane of glass looking upon paradise? 

A look that is a Library

a word that is a Painting

wisdom is like the wind

only known when its gale bends an oak

or its breeze fills a soul

its grandeur is not the gold filigree of a museum

but the heart framed in a wrinkled eye

this is wisdom, and nothing more

Slave to Someday

Slave to Someday

by Tim Reed

How blind the eyes of the slave to someday

as he stumbles past the now in tragic display

The Future Is A Blank Page

The Future is a Blank Page

by Tim Reed

rapt agony grips the blank page waiting

while, in his mind, the poet is articulating

Thinking About Thinking

Thinking About Thinking

by Tim Reed 

swift coursing river or stagnant delta crawling

deep dark springs lead to bright waters falling

Remain

Remain

by Tim Reed

He bids me to stay, to stand, to fight
while world in gaiety spins around
 Remain through day and heartless night
 to seek the seeker and in finding, be found.

To count as mere nothing a tumult of steps
 a vault of cheap smiles
 an abyss of vain words
but rather breathe fire and rend open soul
 To do more than stay - to remain.

In this way may I gain
 a shadow of that lone great form
 who, unmoved by all, sits in plain view of all the stars
 flung, fleeing
 before the glimmering eye and steady gaze
 of he who wears proudly the name
"Remain"

And I, though I be a lesser light,
bear witness to that steadfast one
though marked I am by this feeble frame
am filled to full by his unbound might

And when life as music-box winds to stop
and as the sweet melody ends refrain
 So may I wear his green laurel proud
 and show in its glory the name - "Remain"

Imputation

Imputation

by Tim Reed

you cloak with Honor

- my coward-stripes -

(as I ran from the spears)

(as I ran from the tears)

you work your Pity stronger

 - than all my vile fears -

Hands

Hands

by Tim Reed

"The closest thing I ever had to a door were these two hands.

An inglorious fusion of effort and circumstance."

"Gnarled and growing, they took hold of me like some cancerous being."

"These hands."

"These two wretched hands."

"Do you know what it is to fear yourself? To become a victim of your own M.O.?"

"Suddenly you find yourself surrounded by yourself, and at your throat: 

your own two hands."

"A door? Say more an electric chair. A noose. A vial of capital punishment."

"But this is a kangaroo court. The dishonorable judge is presiding."

A jury of pointing fingers. 

A fist around a gavel.

Twisting keys in cell doors. 

"This door has turned into a nightmare."

"These hands have become a liability."

Each joint, muscle, and sinew is a reason not to trust

these hands."

"The closest thing I had to an enemy?"

"These hands."

L | i | n | e | s

L | i | n | e | s

by Tim Reed

they | rage | against | the | lines

they / tear \ down / the \ signs

all for the gospel* of progress

My Window Faces South

My Window Faces South

by Tim Reed

My window faces South.

It always has, for as long as I can remember.

Mountain air rocked my cradle

adventure filled my lungs

Joy and surprise shod my feet - 

Innocence, the cry from my chest.

Life was good in those days,

and my window faced the South.

Next came fire and ice.

Black and white clothed my vision.

Passion and quest beset me - 

they alone held the skeleton key to my heart-doors.

Wit was my friend in that time.

Sabres of debate and humor clashed as I spoke.

Sparks of life flew back then,

and my window faced the South.

Then a cold draft of sorrow crept into my bones

a tempering grey colored my eyes

Death. . .  dogged my steps

Ashes became my robe.

I felt old, and my mind was a century

but my window faced the South. 

A new wind now brushes away cobwebs.

Ashes are replaced by tender plant-roots.

Spring's warm kiss placates Snow's gloomy stare

Perhaps the young once more effuses the air.

A red sun beckons.

Unknown voices clamor. 

I know there is life left in this frame. 

How do I know? 

My window faces the South. 

It always has, for as long as I can remember.

I was made for living.

Psalm of Gethsemane

Psalm of Gethsemane

by Tim Reed

"Arise!" they yell to me

caring nothing for my sackcloth

"Fight!" they scream

as I meekly say "I surrender"

I have been brought low

but I will remain

nothing will rob me of my sorrow

I will not arise and fight

the hand of the One I trust

I will not lift a finger to save myself

Voices adjure from all sides

to multiply my words

to amplify my cries

to command with conviction

Who am I to know all ends?

I will not be arrogant in my prayers

or be presumptuous in my requests

Rather, I ask for a heart of faith

and a servant's song

With shattered heart

I utter only four words

"Your will be done."

Musings on Creation

By Tim Reed

     We, as humans, use the creation story as a limitation to God. True, it's difficult to imagine a God who speaks the universe into existence. However, have we stopped to consider that this was by no means somehow the maximum of his ability?
     He chose to create that which is on the very border of our ability to understand, showing that his truth revealed in nature is enculturated at the deepest level imaginable - it is voluntarily limited to the pea-brained intellect of mankind. Even the creation account is at once a display of God's power as it is his pity. It is a statement of man's potential as it is his weakness.