He refuses to wear the white robe
so carefully measured to fit;
insists on his frayed flannel shirt
and worn jeans torn at the crotch
held up by well-loved suspenders.
He demurs when they offer him wings,
choosing his own two feet;
declines to join the celestial choir
preferring political rants, and good jokes,
his laughter so loud and lusty
that heaven’s ethereal ceiling falls in,
waking the dead.
They sit at his feet beguiled,
he in his favorite overstuffed chair,
short legs crossed right over left
as he wished,
lively eyes blue as spring lupine,
his mouth blooming poems.
What shall I do with this poem,
damp as a newborn,
now that you’ve left us?
It’s lonely on the page,
so small, lost
in a sea of blank space
where you had been.
Its lines quiver,
flutter like wings
and fly off to find you
where you sit in a far field
under a shady oak.
They land in your lap,
on your shoulders,
you, St. Francis of words.
A Southern California native, Lynda Riese lives in San Diego with her husband of
30 years and her two rescue dogs. She began to write seriously twenty years ago
and has poems published in Calyx, Onthebus, Poet Lore, and other small
press literary magazines in print and on the net.
She also enjoys writing prose, and has an almost-finished novel in stories gathering
dust in her desk drawer. When she’s not writing or taking endless photographs
of her dogs, she works as an antique dealer specializing in vintage and Victorian
jewelry.