Red
We call it a color,
but what are we perceiving?
The senses do it
an injustice.
Imperfect attempts
to describe.
And yet,
there it is,
taunting us
to Sherlock it.
We marvel
and wonder
what it really is.
It follows us,
partnering in our journey
as we seek
to describe ourselves.
Trees
are us
in a knobby skin
stuck in the dirt
projecting crooked fingers
into the eyes of the night.
Reaching
for connection,
something familiar,
a completeness of form.
They’re everywhere
screaming for attention,
but we only care
about shade.
Not
so sure
we augur toward bliss.
We say we want it,
pray for it,
but we go another way:
Pain vs vanilla.
No middle road.
Extremes
for some reason.
We can’t have it.
We think we can
but a pothole
says no way.
Ankle pain
in the inevitable morning.
Directions
My dad knew directions.
How to make his way
without a compass.
I do not.
I could get lost in my small hometown
when it rains.
A whirling dervish of directional confusion.
How I made it out of the state,
I’ll never know.
Sands drift by,
unceasing,
but from which direction?
It gets in your eyes
preventing a purposeful journey.
Time presses on regardless,
affecting us all,
erasing us by degrees.
Knowing where to go
is imperative, yet
we don’t really know
the destination.
Losing
evaporating,
disintegrating
gravel.
Sand,
grit,
dust.
Poof
and you’re gone.
A wind
takes you and me away.
Soil for the next set of feet
shuffling,
sometimes dancing,
looking for direction
and sunlight.
*****
R James Sennett Jr. Bio:
Nipping at the heels like a pup way too attentive, poetry has pursued this word student all his life. The muse has a funny way of showing up when it wants to make its presence known. He can do no other but to follow.
Publications: Louisville Review, Thinker Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, LOU Today, Taj Mahal Review, Journal of Expressive Writing, Poetry Superhighway, Galway Review, Nap Lit. Pending: Litbop: Art and Literature in the Groove, Star 82 Review, The Main Street Rag, Rundelania, DarkWinter Literary Magazine and Poetry Pacific.
