Emily woke me at 1:12.
She walked the line
from her bed to mine
and I tucked her one more time.
At 1:17 I saw the moon
in the western sky
a sweet potato pie.
Once slice, low upon a rhyme.
A dipper as big as forever
over my head like a caption.
Stars were a splashin’
into my soul and onto the pines.
1:34 was when I lay me down again.
Goodnight moon was all I said.
I prayed twinkled stars on her head.
So thankful for how she shines.
Could the moon be a peep-hole?
Could the sun be a spot light?
Could the stars be pinpricks of the eternal?
Could the ocean be shedding tears?
Could the tides be inflections in a voice?
Could the waves be ballroom dancing?
Could the mountains be a la mode?
Could the foothills be out for a stroll?
Could the valleys be hoarding echoes?
Could I tag along child, and wonder around with you?
Could you share your imagination with me?
Could we see if God brought something for show and tell?
We stood in awe
of the celestial
apparition.
We Pointed
guiding words
of wonder.
The glowing curtain
danced and skipped
in the northern sky.
It hung nervous
in its translucent
evening gown.
The ghost furled
in the folds of
the wind.
Together we strained
to see the mystery
of us.
For my son Nathan on his 23rd birthday. 23rd?! Ah time, you have aged me again.
© Gerald Allen Barrett
The sun yawned it’s roundness.
The cardinals sung unto the Lord,
and the stars faded into the brighter blues.
Another dark night of the soul receded.
She lies sipping on air
and rolls ice chips with her tongue.
A foot tapping and arm twitch
under linen veneer.
She, in her bed,
can’t even get up on the wrong side.
But she whispers sweet everythings
in our ears.
She sleeps in pieces
and heavenly peace will come.
Time stutters and mumbles
while we circle her.
The waiting room cools
as the mourning star moves over.
Evening vespers settle in
and we tuck her in again.
For My Mother.
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.
Gerald the Writer 