Poetry || Submissions

Journey
and other poems
by Thomas D. Reynolds

Journey

In your hand,
the fossil is pitted,
whorled like a spring,
cocoon ready to open.

Protected inside
the rock shelf for
five million years,
it is now at your mercy,
suddenly vulnerable,
fragile boat
in the sea of your hand.

It is older than you,
and wiser. Passing through death,
a gradual flow like sand or water,
into a dark endless ocean.

For days,
you've stood on this ledge,
pacing the rim, like the bride
of an explorer searching
for sails on the horizon.

Brave sailor
clinging to a raft of rock,
washed ashore after
a violent storm. Now you
enfold it like a lonely spouse
who never gave up hope,
a tender but selfish caress.

The weight

to see if anyone notices
the humiliations of old age,

or that he shaved yesterday,
dressed in blue overalls,

the pair less worn and faded,
and combed his hair.

But none has for years.
The coarse gray terrier

behind the chain-line fence
tenses at the movement

but then closes its eyes,
unclenches its claws.

A product of dedication,
he tells the growing dusk,

doing it so well, so long,
one becomes invisible.

Braced on the chipped siding,
he labors by kitchen light,

sorting tangled wires,
copper here, brass there,

repairing knickknacks
with jeweler's precision,

the intensity of a surgeon
threading an artery

so focused on the task
he doesn't reflect until later

back in his kitchen,
gripping a cup of coffee,

the steady drumbeat
marking time in the sink,

how the balance of life
tips on the weight of one task

carefully chosen, diligently
pursued to its proper end.

Remodeling

Carpenters strip away
layers of paint and wood
down to the beams.

This family room
was once an elaborate set
filled with props,

the backdrop of my best work,
inhabiting the role of patriarch
with a dignified vulnerability.

The longest running production
on the block,
ten years, over 3,500 perfomances!

Actors playing the family,
though new to their roles,
emoted like veterans.

An occasional off night occurred,
resulting from repetition,
but the chemistry was often electric.

Timing,
a bit off in rehearsals,
became sharp and familiar.

"An overall worthy production
of a familiar chestnut!"
I raved in my quiet moments.

But now as we survey
the ruined set,
years stripped away

like so much tacky wallpaper,
flower print upon flower print
thick with paste,

familiar lines ring hollow,
gestures self-conscious
brows moist with flop sweat.

Family members
stand in the wings
as if unsure of their cues.

The polished veteran seems
once again the understudy
desparate to find his mark,

stumbling through this matinee,
strained and exhausted,
forgetting the words.

Thomas D. Reynolds teaches at Johnson County Community College in Overland Park, Kansas and is interested in history, folklore, and poetry. His poetry has appeared, in among other places, Aethlon-The Journal of Sport Literature, Alabama Literary Review, New Delta Review, Midwest Poetry Review, The MacGuffin, The Cape Rock, Potpourri, Tryst, American Western Magazine, and Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine.