A boy becomes a man.
Along the line,
life grabs him, rattles his innards
like a wooden roller coaster catapulting him into the jaws
of a treacherous society.
As this becomes clear, a reality,
a game if you will,
one he cannot win no matter the effort
or how sly he’s become, begins.
Only then does the risk
become the fuel to survive,
–C. L. Swinney (c) 2017
I can’t turn away, let my eyes drift with the sea.
The beauty, her complex levels,
her almost letting go completely,
yet close enough to be rescued pulls me deeper.
In the water, on land, wherever my weary heart travels,
she is there. Bubbles mingle with timeless boulders,
intertwined like new lovers, drawing me into the current.
My heart, a ship searching for land, and comfort,
somewhere to throw an anchor, somewhere to finally settle down,
swells. Today, right now, I’ve finally found the courage
to tell her how I feel.
(c) C. L. Swinney 2016
Your tainted mouth kills
my ears, my heart, my weary
soul and words have failed.
(c) C. L. Swinney 2016
In a pool of his own urine he sleeps,
homeless, scared, and lacking food or shelter.
Then along comes the law, this sight he weeps.
People turn away, all helter-skelter,
while the rest of us throw most of our scraps
away, cast long and menacing sharp glares.
For what? What does your heart see as he naps?
Your soul and heart should burn wild like flares.
Pretending he is not there, no answer,
but strife. Remember he is still a man.
Most fought to protect and came home with cancer.
Some fraud, not he, looking for an open hand
and I’ll be damned if I didn’t get involved
while you sit there…a conscious un-evolved.
(c) C.L.Swinney 2016
The air is clear up there, they said.
Big becomes small, drama left behind, they said.
But what of the terrified child,
the one who’s never done this before?
But what of the foreigner,
the one who needs deodorant, like right now?
But what of the business man,
the one who’s talking over the safety spiel?
But what of the obese man,
the one who’s rattling my brain with his walrus tongue?
But what of the distracted stewardess,
the one who’s hips slam my not-so-funny bone?
And closer to home, what of the two boys, the ones arguing
for technology with rolling eyes like Vegas slot machines?
Charlie Brown’s teacher mumbles something, then we descend.
Wheels search, then grab, pavement. I crave coffee. Its embrace
obliterates the lousy flight, and instantly I’m grounded once again.
C. L. Swinney (c) 2015