May 4
“Souk” Watercolor & Graphite on Paper By J. Artemus Gordon
Please check out my new poem in literary magazine, Songs of Eretz, May 4, 2018. Just follow the link (or cut and paste it into your browser):
http://www.songsoferetz.com/2018/05/jerusalem-by-terri-lynn-cummings.html?m=1
better to be lost
and find the way
rather than know
the way and be lost
— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
He read the lips of leaves,
sang replies with croaking toads
and cricket song. His laughter
tickled the trees’ ribs
but lacy shadows laced his life.
Breath curled inside a fallen nest.
Spring pressed a bud in his palm
wove her arms around his heart
carried him inside her veins.
We pinned our sights beyond
our view, leaned into his ripe
and distant world.
— t. l. cummings
Image of Conor Cummings
through the window
sweating, with uncertainty
her finger paints
him on a pane
framed by a wooden sash
She draws his eyes, hollow
adds two hearts, filled
with their children’s names
and presses her lips on them
Warm breath thaws the scene
She scribbles peace signs
as she prays, Return, enduring
like a sun-baked rock from
Afghanistan’s mountains
— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
thunder
summit
ocean
teeth
sandpaper
words penned
with a crowded heart
honed by a feather
whisper
wings
canyon
rain
velvet
t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
When my parents were alive
they said the world was kinder
when they were young. Now
I understand. Circumstances
are sorry enough that one
may raise a spoon, play with
a pet, whistle a tune, or smile
and achieve as much for our
universe as anyone.
— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
Hatred
lynched innocence
cocked pride like pistols
fired fear at targets of
walled opinions, drowned
daughters for sins, banned
black keys from pianos
saved from harmony
defined art until it slept
undisturbed
education beheaded reason
cut stars from flags
sewed them on jackets
scraped flesh from the page
burned it alive
nailed dissent in the air
bled it dry
replaced hours on the clock
with years
decreed all races end
except its own
— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
In the blink of a camera’s eye
Stop-action framed murders
Mother and child
Hung from bridge
Like meat in a cold locker
Arms at sides like moths
Pressed between slides
Microscoped to validate
Ritual rule – the mob
Pinned in a camera’s lens
Crazed, glazed opinions
Suspended stars and stripes
From a bridge too far
Necks of reason and tolerance
Snapped on the end of hope
— t. l. cummings
Image from Pinterest
itchy; an uncomfortable
rash of thoughts wrung
from truth. I scratch
the pen across white
bandages, soothing
the urge to scream
— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
He presented an iPad to his wife for her birthday.
Stellar white and gold, it held all the books
in the world. Saved her from driving to
the library or book store, eyes cloudy,
hands and feet bruised by time.
Can’t remember how to turn it on, she said,
place an order, adjust the font, the light.
A book I don’t touch doesn’t breathe
in my hands. A book I don’t smell
won’t make me hungry to read. A
book I don’t see, doesn’t see me.
Doesn’t call my name.
— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest
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