3 Flavors

3 Flavors

By Stuart Forrest

She Said

Don’t waste my time

with anything but life.

Even love

leaves to little room to breathe.

Don’t fill my days

with anything but sun.

Your moonlight

is too serious. I’ll leave.

Don’t talk to me

when I can hear you sing.

You best words

cannot caress or please.

Don’t fill your heart

with any plans for me.

You have hopes

but I want to be a dream.

 

 

Where Are You?

Where are you, my brothers?

Where are you, my sisters?

I have no hope, no courage without you.

The sun withholds light;

consoling warmth.

This world is barren of friends.

I spin. I stumble

and pour myself out upon the dust

in confounding, endless talk;

disturbing angels,

drawing demons.

Their scoffing faces brand my breast

with a shame that glows;

to bright to conceal.

Where are you, my brothers?

Where are you, my sisters?

My outstretched arms are empty.

They are so weary; heavy.

I would sing in song,

bursting wide my chest,

baring my beating heart,

rejoicing at your approach

to save me from myself,

my selfish, futile works

that bar me from my elusive home.

Where are you?

Carry me to our Father.

Pray He accepts me at long last.

 

 

Kaput

Said the poet to the tyrant, Xi Un Tin

“Master, do you not see who is at your back?

Do you not sense the touch;

the weight of a fly’s wing upon your nape?

Do you not hear the whisper of a child

born on the day you took power?”

The serpent tests the air.

The serpent tastes the air.

The serpent coils with deadly purpose.

“He watches at your back by day.

In your deepest sleep

he stands at your pillow,

sword in hand, patient, watchful.

He feeds upon an ambition

colder than any ice.

He waits upon the day when it will thaw

drenched with your blood;

hot, erupting like red magma,

upon his flesh,

upon the walls,

drowning the past

staining the future.”

The owl lurks in its flight.

The owl soars silent in the night.

The owl suddenly descends with deadly purpose.

“Master, on that day there will be an instant

when eye pierces eye,

when power is seized,

when vain pride flees,

and death opens wide its maw.”

The scorpion prowls among the stones.

The scorpion finds his prey alone.

The scorpion’s sting is quick with deadly purpose


My name is Stuart James Forrest and I was born in Omaha, Nebraska in 1951. I am a retired public servant. Two years ago, I developed a passion for creative writing while attending the Stanford University Continuing Studies Program. I enjoy writing poetry, short stories and hope to develop enough skill to be a strong, creative representative of my generation of Black Americans who lived through a very tumultuous period in American history.

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