Author: Thomas Griffith

WERE I TO WAKE 

In my memory lives a vast oak 

hanging one low, peeled branch— sticking out like a sore thumb

upon which a thrill seeker once tied a muddled rope swing. 

My brother who is not my brother 

but an old friend tethered at the soul 

skips rocks across the bank of the Dead River. 

We rode our bikes there after class, 

his a rusted Schwinn and mine 

a no brand hand-me-down. 

There is an innocence in not thinking twice 

about whether a thrown stone 

might thrash a friend cascading from above. 

Some time has passed now 

and we haven’t talked in a way that matters 

for too long a while. 

Were I to wake on this vacant night 

it would surely be that I dreamt of the way 

two stones never skip the same.

THE DISPOSABLE CAMERA,

a yellow point and shoot,

captures twenty seven frames.

When time comes

I’ll develop them,

writing little blurbs 

in chicken scratch 

on the back,

reminding me of loved 

ones, where my weary 

legs traveled, of sunsets 

that sank and sank

again.

Eric, cigarette plus shades

Brynna, wetsuit off the South Shore

Dad, beneath the skateboard rack

Prospect beach stretch, empty 

Forget me nots

I can almost hear 

laughter, the lull 

of a quiet shore

after the sun has 

shattered through

the world’s floor

and sunk beneath 

Superior to a 

long night’s rest. 

FEVER DREAM ON THE CORNER OF N. STATE

I was once approached by a grizzled crone, indefinitely stoned. Stoned

myself, I couldn’t help but welcome the gnarled lump of a man. Man

we were both toasted. Toasted

in the quiet of that stagnant August night, he delivered a sermon. Sermon

for the damned, perhaps. Perhaps 

I looked the part to listen. “Listen”,

he croaked: “You can never imagine a new face. Face

the facts, kid”. Kid

you not, I was so stoned I dreamt the nomadic soul before me was God. God

himself had returned to visit me on that still evening. Evening 

out my eyes, I shook God’s hand, and gave him my only dollar as an offering. Offering

his thanks, God and I parted ways, never to cross again. Again,

I was more baked than a twice-baked potato casserole from hell. Hell,

I reckon I really did meet god in some form. Form 

your own image of God, but good luck trying. Trying

to picture God, I still think of that molted man’s face.

SYNCHRONICITY

Why do you write poetry?

is the icebreaker of nightmares,

an answerless multiplicity

of syllables and dreamscapes that coalesce

the same as white tees and red wine. 

There is only coincidence beneath

every great love story

and this is no exception. 

Why because my mother worked nights

and laid to rest as I woke. 

My sprightly, boyish words 

had nowhere to go 

but the page. 

There are one million other

accidental reasons. 

EQUINOX AT THE BELLTOWER

The squirrel hauls a belly sash 

of acorns, the shoes scuff, and 

any of these faces might kiss 

the sun for its newfound shine.

Their song is ringing.

Round the marble cracks and slim

branches, each singing a melody of 

buds, though winter teases, winter

teases. Still, there is ease in this.

There, song is ringing. 

The diag scuttles plain as day, the

students crustaceans swarming at

the decay, coming out of shells to 

pincer the waking world. Shhhh- 

They’re a song, ringing.