By Ellis Rhoades
To Make a Memory
Mix sea salt with the flowing tide, and eyes
Bluer still.
Feel fading heartbeats; recall the warmth
Of aged love through lumbering blood.
Say goodbye.
Say hello.
Stay up late until it’s early, until words
Cannot dive deep enough.
Say I do.
Pay attention. But only to moments, and not
The years falling like leaves -
Drifting tongues of fire
On a mounting breeze.
Then, swept along too swiftly, pause
To note the slant of sunlight through a window
Reflecting blue-green pools, and two
Fresh smiles.
Let no wonder pass, no beauty go unclasped
But do not grip too tightly, as with age
The setting of the sun becomes a friend.
Like shifting tides, the hours all rush back
In the end.
Warrior’s Prayer
Make war upon the enemies of light, and give
No mercy to the evil, the horrid, the false.
Rally to the groaning of creation.
Hoist high the standard - each man’s cross.
Let blood spill where sin fell to the earth -
Justice pleasing to a wrathful God.
No memory of fell and fallen creatures
To last, stricken by the edge of the sword.
Lift up the ram’s horns, circle the gates
Of Hell seven times - once for each most deadly sin
And take no spoil, for the treasure there
Is already spoiled within.
Let armies seen and unseen clash;
Let blackest gates know fear at fearsome siege -
But let the angels take their rest.
Here am I. Send me.
Of Little Faith
The lilies of the field
Are clothed in violet glory
Flowering over
Graves to soothe
Their use.
No Roman guard for Angela
No burial shroud for Jack
No stone rolled away
For the children.
There is weeping and gnashing
Of teeth afflicted
By this transient world
And they say judgement is yet to come.
Oh ye of little faith,
The good book reproves,
Why do you trouble
Over what you will wear?
Grandma wore purple
Like the lilies,
I whisper.
Grandma wore white and brown
Like the birds
Of the air.
Tell me guide, friend, scholar of the Word
That He has a plan.
Tell me preacher at the altar
That He feels our pain.
Tell me all things work for good,
That every tear is necessary,
And perhaps your burning tongue
Will lead me to the helpless sin
Of anger at a just God.
If my faith indeed could move the mountains
Would I weep still
Beside this tomb?
Or could I boldly claim,
“She is only sleeping,”
As loved ones look on, amazed?
Instead of boarding a plane
Back home to those I’ve honored
All my life, and wondering
What will Father say?
What will Father say?
The Highest Calling
Behind the screen
With its kaleidoscopic colors.
Beyond the siren call
Of the projector.
Past the afterglow of Summer,
The languid appeal of bright smiles
On bright days.
Hidden under layers
Of coal and rigid rock
Like diamonds sparkling in secret caverns
Perfected under weight
Of darkling depths.
Searched out under sheets,
Found atop the battlements
Between frail bodies
Bracing for the sting of steel
Or the bite of bullets.
A lifeline stronger than the pull
Of death, longer than
Time itself, enduring pounding waves
And with the whisper of a single word
Frayed.
Fragile beauty veiled
Between drops of rain
Humble through the night, yet in the day
Bright beyond all colors,
Simply too brave
To come without
A promise.
Blizzard
Veiled in snow, a muffled world
Whose voice howls down with bitter flurries
Calls to the adventurous with cold, unparalleled
Beauty.
Who goes there? Not a soul, despite
The gift that falls like diamonds from dark clouds.
In neat rows down Pine street, houses crouch under the weight
Of crystal glory lighting on the ground.
The occupants turn dials,
Snare themselves in warmth and covers pulled
Tight enough to insulate from trials -
All fear their fallow hearts evade, are fooled
To think that such a mighty offering
Winter’s call to young and old - fierce roar -
Could be received over a cup of tea
Could be heard over the blazing tongues at hearth.
Yet if they stepped across the warm threshold
Of home, strode out on frosty blanket fair and pure
Found would be some welcome in the cold,
The biting winds a tonic swift to cure
The malady of idleness - vain faith
In a solid world reality
Denies throughout the seasons, for blind fate
Tosses every life like icy seeds.
For the soul loses its purpose
Bound fast by languid hours
And, so tied, cries for deliverance
Accepts the wintry challenge
To break all bonds, to loose its nature
Taking on new burdens, burdened less -
To stride across the alabaster fields, enraptured
And earning hallowed silence, trial bless.
Fiction
Scattered dust settles on the spine
Of an aged novel lost to passion
Like streaks of grey in an old woman’s glory
Or the wonder of snow on a lonely mountain.
Such riches, appraised, sell for less
Than half their worth in wisdom
But to the prudent mind, unstained by greed:
A gilding worthy of kingdoms.
Travel far, still no man will reach
The lands of which this tome has told
To the growing and grown, each one alike -
It bears them past their mortal fold.
So just as every mighty gift
Is hidden lest its favor fall
Upon ignoble heads, this spellbound tome
Is passed down generations, or in halls
Lined by shelves supporting all the weight
Of years poured out in earnest grace
To please the heart, to spur the mind
And, bearing merry marks upon the face
Of some distant wanderer, at last to gain
That realm which even words could scarcely picture.
To fill the soul, in valor animate
The spirit of a gracious reader -
And ask no thanks, upon the feat
Except to view a further benediction.
Such works as these we best esteem
Returning them to dusty thrones, and crowns etched with the humble rank of Fiction.