The Opera of James Hurst
life is
a strange bird
indeed
never knowing where
it might land
The Scarlet Ibis
fell through the cracks
of my youth
and decades later
might have missed it
still
but it landed like a feather
in my daughter’s hands
and she read it aloud to me
the day it was read aloud to her
we parked in a parking lot
after school
and I sat there staring out the windshield
not seeing the traffic go by
I saw only Doodle
could see him as clear
as a day
that was …
and is
no more
TL
John Daly
at 54
Daly ain’t afraid
to die
never knew much
about him
other than his penchant
for wild looking pants
but saw an interview online
he interviews well
saw he wrote a book
curious
so looked it up
and bought it online
was somewhere in the middle
pages
when heard about his current cancer
being cut out
and how he’s dealing
with it
just a handful of pages left
now to read
and I don’t want it to end
he’s made me laugh so hard
and cry so good
he’s about as real as they come
cusses like a sailor
smokes like a weed
drank ‘til he was drained
an eye for the ladies
enjoys excess to the extreme
falls in love easily
as he forgives
can size up a room
and find the broken heart
he doesn’t kick the down and out
on the street
or walk on by oblivious
he sees them where they are
and lifts them …
yeah, I’m a fan
for life
and it ain’t got nothing to do
with golf
you’re like a real live Rocky
Yo, Daly …
keep those hands up
keep those feet moving
keep that heart
that Lion’s heart
beating strong
stay outta the corner
and in the ring
TL
When the Fog Lifts
a little bird
of blue
holds the line
against the cold
wind
bobbing up and down
in waves
like a sailboat in the sea
looks down at the grass
still green for now
the turning of blades
the fall of leaves
puddles of glass
soon it’ll be hard
to find food
and shelter
and warmth
where will it go
when the rains come
crashing
and the trees in their tray
stand frozen
like sticks in slab
will it roam the sky
looking for the sun
and wake up one morning
in the stillness of a Sunday
and find it green
once more
TL
Chosen
when he got
there
the place was in ruins
everything was new
when he was a child
but his eyes had seen
too much turn
over and over and over …
and now it seared him
to open them
he couldn’t sleep
even when he slept
all the ruined lives
that never turned round
ending in dead-ends
a ring never worn
innocence lost
his eyes hurt
from the ocean of tears
and the question
of why
he had lived too long
100 years in the middle
of a road
where the grass never grows
he longed for green pastures
and the trees of his youth
and the feeling of red apples
and it was the first time
since he was a little boy
that he could open his eyes wide
and dry
and it wasn’t dark
his body was bathed in the light
and he could see the sea shining
in the distance …
he felt weightless
as if he could fly
like a bird
like a sparrow
…
TL
Journalist Julio Valdivia
journalism
at its noble best
seeks ever only
the truth
digging in the dark
at the lonely hour
whilst the unencumbered sleep
sound in their beds
sacrifices are met and made
for there are stories
out there
that must be told
that have to be told
and certain ones
nobody nowhere wants to write …
but they have to
not for themselves
or the outlet
but for a global society
that would otherwise never know
the truth
we need truth seekers in the world
to silence them is harmful
to us all
the killing of journalists
is a shameful thing
to discard their tortured body
by the railroad tracks
their head chopped off
is something else
altogether
TL