Another Ransomed to the Day

There she stood, a silent sentinel
at the edge of her quiet pool.
The dawn, that rose hooded mongrel,
stumbled from her dark vestibule,
and newly born, purchased color;
and wild with abandon spent it on her whims.
Water, rippled by a lone sculler,
pulsed against her slender limbs.
She stared with worry at the dawn.
Then her bright eyes pawed her prey,
and lightening quick, stabbed the dawn;
another bled, another ransomed to the day.
For the newborn day breeds bile,
and with a sway, sells death’s smile.

© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved.

Photo by Alfred Leung on Unsplash


Kick the Goad

Face façades force me to face
the clay that clings to my flesh;
that clay that shapes itself
depending on the crowd,
depending on the shroud.

I just want to kick the goad.

I’m angry at death,
angry that the stain
still clings and reigns,
angry that death’s not done
wreaking havoc, gaining gains.

I should speak in tense-past,
when discussing death’s out-cast.
I should light where Light
has dealt death to death.

death’s death is shrouded,
hidden from my unseeing eyes;
blind I stand and blind I rise.
I refuse to wash my muddy eyes.

© rl busséll 2018 – All rights reserved.

for my friend KW

A reflection on James 1:23, Acts 26:14, Hebrews 2:14-15, and John 9:6-7 and the too soon passing of a friend; may light perpetual shine upon her.