Archive for November, 2008

15
Nov
08

James

James
By Darren King [copyright 2008]

Here in this room are pictures of you
and the people who love you –
you with your family and friends,
you and your rock band,
your team mates,
you and a beautiful girl.
I stand across from your father,
his tired eyes red and swollen,
everything I think to say
sounding so lame as when I said it
to myself in the car for practice.
When your mother sees me
she yells my name
and jumps from her chair
as if she’s been waiting,
all this after I’d been away so long
and I remembered then how openly
we discussed spiritual matters.
And here I am with her again
because of you.
She hugs me, she pulls me close,
her voice sounding the way it always had
when she smiled while talking.
I know he’s okay now,
she says hurriedly into my ear,
I know he’s okay.
She pulls me closer
as if to tell a secret,
all the while repeating herself,
I felt him three times today,
three times I felt him,
three times.

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09
Nov
08

Carol

Carol
By Darren King [copyright 2008]

I didn’t want you
to have to be that person –
who walks to the edge
of the abyss
and looking down into
its murky depths
walks in
undaunted
if but to hang on
to someone you love
as if going in yourself
you could bring him back.
I didn’t want you
to have to be that person
you who are too good
too kind
and now all too knowing
of what angels know
what is there
what the rest of us
can only wonder
assuming we are allowed
even to speculate
what it was you saw.
But it is telling now and
for me a haunting glimpse
when someone recently
asked you in mixed company
Carol what is it you are afraid of
you smiled and replied softly, kindly
in the only language you know –
I’m not afraid of anything anymore.

04
Nov
08

In Somebody Else’s Shoes (or, why I lean left)

In Somebody Else’s Shoes (or, why I lean left)
By Darren King [copyright 2008]

It’s not so much
that I don’t recognize
these are good paying jobs
for an unremarkable town like this –
with no apparent downtown
and the discount chainstores
unloaded just off the interstate exit.
And I recognize people must own
the choices they make.
She’s all too young though, too comfortable
in factory life –
with her over-sized Kevlar gloves
and safety glasses clamped to her face,
fair and framed by a few
loose locks of blonde hair.
She manages herself all too well
among the hazards, the dials, the danger.
Born into other circumstances,
this day in autumn
might have been different.
But here on this cold plant floor,
her shift just starting and
lunch four hours away,
everything grey,
everything the same,
the first part she will make
indistinguishable from her last.




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