3 POEMS
Jonathan Redwood

CRIPPLE TONGUE

My dear blind man.
Your path has been snatched by the angels.
Don’t cry deep; cold sighs of rain and
tears of roses.
Live long, free prayer.
Go on! Climb the highest mountain and cough up
bits of dry lung.
Breath, snatched.
Above; your putrid smile.
Alone, we’re one—free never.
That is chains!
Life will take you, uncle, in one breath.
Hold the lull of a slow heart,
listen to the solace.
Then do it again, and again.

*

DURING A WALK IN THE MOUNTAINS

High in the mountains, the dreamers left his mark.
An attempt to connect with his mother;
finally a sense of accomplishment, fulfillment.
Why, is of no importance.
For his heart and soul took him, and blindly so,
he followed.
Purged, although he is filthy—
his mother will clean him,
let him go; then drop him into the abyss, again.
How futile!
How come he cannot stay is in the hands of another.
Perhaps time is opposite him.
No importance.
The deaf-mute son is better off in the hands of his feet,
not his ambition.
Go forth! Move!
Look, then go.
Love then love.

*

SUNDAY LAMENT

I’ve been there,
in the past.
I’ve enjoyed the cafe whispers and the polished shoes.
Old stories and tattered structures are familiar.
Broken down streetlights and designs looming.
I’ve been there; in the old.
Breathless and inconsolable—how can this be?
So many atrocities yet so few remember what has wiped the streets clean.
A million carts.
A million voices.
Two million beats; that leave the sky in scars and still weep the soft blade.
A blistered heart, illuminating
yellow, blue.
It must pass.
 

The babies, the kids, and the young lay themselves on the tracks—crying earth!
While one whims off his balcony and into the sores.
Critters and predators consoled in one hand;
devouring one another.
Shot with the biggest gun.
Fingers walk city blocks and intrude homes.
Collect dirt from the moss!
But worms have dried up the fruit,
they live and play.

The airs are lies,
our hands breathe cold.
Clouds linger among the few.
I reject you people!
I denounce your love!
My fire’s nested in stone—although
quiet, quiet.
Watch the last of the dying embers fall onto the dew.
Cry to us, cry to me.
You don’t need eyes to see things the way I do.
Live with me in the past,
crunch the splinters and toss them!
What fantasies flood into your vacant soul,
have gone through me.
We dream the same.
You illuminate fire,
which brings delight to my heart.
Spellbound, together;
pearls of white,
roses of the sun.
Together we've laid—six feet beneath
a glowing, bygone moon.

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JONATHAN REDWOOD is a poet from Los Angeles. He is writing his debut book of poetry entitled, “Come Forth and Speak Your Name.”