What Time Does Not Heal

What Time Does Not Heal
by Tim Reed


last night, I dreamed of you
- it seemed so real
yet, I awoke to darkness
a lone castaway on this bed
sailing a thousand moonless nights


there is a famine not of food
there is a drought not of water
I am consumed inside-out
you have sailed past the horizon
your laugh is a dying star

Storm Sonnet

Storm Sonnet
by Tim Reed

all 'round the cold wind howled
as day shunned to share its light
and brute-beast bolts, they growled
as Smithy forged thru Hades' night

the rain quenched such glowing steel
as time ne'er saw nor shall again
and hammer struck such anvil peal
that spark-stars remain, remain

and on the dawn, he honed the edge
and by the tide, he whet the blade 
then he laid it aside with a pledge
and until full-time there it stayed
'til we ourselves wrath-fire fed
- then it clove the living from the dead 

My Home

My Home
by Tim Reed

earth steeped in morning and evening rains
brews a chill sweetness, rich and subtle
unappreciated by those who can only see and have forgotten
to smell, taste, feel, and hear
(the yellow sun is such a paltry bauble)
gentle light, softened by downy cloud-batting
kindly wakens
grey, green, blue, brown
I sleep on mossbed 'neath a fir chapel

there is something different about a train horn
when it passes through the fog
it is like a secret lullaby
as you are held in your mother's lap
intimacy

earth, water, tree, and stone
convene, commune
family

Untitled

Untitled

by Timothy Reed

Southern Cathedral

Southern Cathedral
by Timothy Reed

stained glass hangs in leafy curtains
green, green, green
between brown columns

sawblade cicadas
sing sacred choruses

a dog-bark pulpiteer
musters staccato sermons

the blood of Christ
colors the clay crimson
we walk on the covenant

the holy water has been
strewn in the air
to breathe is to be baptized

creation cries out praise
and a breeze hovers overhead
bestowing tongues of fire

Feet & Fangs

feet & fangs

by Timothy Reed

the home of love

does not allow

will not suffer

both adders and infants

feet and fangs

to share the shelter

of its roof

In the Forest

In the Forest

by Timothy Reed

feet creep

 forest of legs

trunks

arms

hands - branches

cell phone birds, roosting

chirping, blinking

asking to be fed

worshipped

so much talking

so little communion

so much motion

so little accomplished

tomorrow slips by in

 pixel combinations

tap, tap, tap

bits and bytes rot the forest

from roots up

inside out

we forget the sun amidst lesser lights

Greatest Omissions

Greatest Omissions

by Timothy Reed

the gap

the hole for the key

silence transmutes noise to music

darkness gives voice to stars

breathlessness makes breath alive

empty hands bring bread

but

we are

filling, filling

talking, talking

building, building

we always abort silence.

"enough!" cries the blind beggar

empty cup swaying in the air

blind, indeed

may we not commit

the sin of sufficiency

may we not shy away from

greatest omissions 

Word Painting of the Columbia at Night

Word Painting of the Columbia at Night

by Tim Reed

Night scatters day’s ashes

From east to west

the Heron flattens her wings

greyblue on whispering water

lullaby of Rail and River

harmonize with night rhymes 

emeralds, rubies, and amber 

escape on vitreous ripples

we gaze above as winged Hermes

usurps Polaris’ throne

as my roots turn upward

the Heron launches towards Dawn

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

The Watched Pot

The Watched Pot

by Timothy Reed

a watched pot never boils

well, I suppose that depends

on who is watching

where, and when

unseen flame keeps bubbles breaking

rising, rising, rising

silent until

the hissing and sputtering raises hell

to the surface

to the ear

to the eye

and the scalding liquid

sloshes and spills over every edge

the pot boils

the pot is always boiling

nowadays

Shame's Epitaph

Shame's Epitaph

by Timothy Reed

in the garden today

no leaf is sewn

no fur is worn

as we celebrate

embrace

affirm

any and all nakedness

shame itself has died

the trees blush, but it is not fall

Flux

Flux

by Timothy Reed

“hold fast the lubber line”

white knuckles clutch a heading

but no tears, sweat, or blood

could make the needle swing or sway

no willpower could define,

no third eye divine

the way back home

the way back home

on this sea, dark as sin

mad as hell

grey as doubt

waves white-frothed with pride

no sun nor moon could ever shine

Polaris lies bound and gagged

behind a curtain, blueblack

and the cross of the South

shudders under Golgotha’s weight

no titan will guide

no hero will rise

"only hold fast the lubber line"

compass speaks

with quiet tongue

and humble words

“they are not mine”

“they are not mine” 

“but give me grace to find

and emptiness to align

with the source

and the flux will guide

the way back home 

the way back home”

“hold fast the lubber line” 

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

Night Walk

Night Walk

by Timothy Reed

I

would have cleared my mind

but for that

yellow toenail in the sky

It 

wavered and wandered

still watching

while I trod and trod and trod

My

feeble heart wound down

like a clock

but I found no key to twist

look away

look away

Eye

dipped below the rim

and my mind

cleared, now free from that dull gaze

Anathema

Anathema 

by Timothy Reed

through dusty centuries

men's tongues have wagged indefatigable

trying to divine the sin by which man is

irrevocably damned

I rather think I know

the anathema:

staleness

Hansel's Lament

Hansel's Lament

by Timothy Reed

they say sleeping is rest

well, tonight it is work

 jumping gaps from minute to minute

following sandman's 

meager breadcrumbs

through fevered forests: journey decaying

birds feast on hopes

filling their bellies with

 moon silver that was to be mine

earth spins to a halt

and heaven's bread spoils

when night drones on, overlong

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.