Plausible Deniability (or The Grey, the Black, and the Brown)

FIVE minutes before closing time, the man in the grey suit was the only customer at the bar. As the bartender began purging glasses of their varyingly intoxicating contents, and wiping down the tables where the more intoxicating varieties, or the less intoxicating in larger amounts, had been consumed, the grey-clad man gazed into a nearly empty glass of beer, as if hesitant to take the final sips and so end the pleasure of the drink.
    Four minutes before closing time, a man in a black suit walked into the bar, the chime on the door sounding loud against the quiet contemplation of the grey-clad man and the almost stealthy cleaning-up of the bartender. He laid down his black overcoat on one of the barstools and waited until the bartender was once more behind the counter.
    “A Scotch,” the black-clad man said.
    The bartender selected what seemed a fitting glass for the precious liquid.
    The black-clad man turned to the grey-clad man. “He’s coming.”
    “I never really cared for Scotch,” said the bartender, pulling a cork out of a bottle.
    “Is it tonight, then?” said the grey-clad man.
    “It’s too dry.” The bartender poured out the golden-brown liquid into the glass.
    “We have no choice,” said the black-clad man.
    “Give me a good, sweet bourbon any day.” The bartender set the glass in front of the black-clad man.
    The man in the black suit picked up the cup, swirled it, took a tiny sip, and poured the rest of it into the glass that the man in the grey suit was still holding slightly tilted. He righted it as it was filled to the brim. The grey-clad man took a sip, as the black-clad man stared at the bartender’s cuffs. Only a nearly imperceptible raising of the eyebrow indicated that the bartender had noticed what happened.
    Three minutes before closing time, the two men at the bar both turned to watch a man in a brown suit enter. The bartender set an empty glass and a bottle of beer on the counter and withdrew to the backroom. As the black-clad man filled the glass with beer, the grey-clad man gestured toward the stool over which the overcoat was draped. The brown-clad man sat down and took a sip of the beer that was proffered to him. The black-clad man got up as the grey-clad man and the brown-clad man faced each other.
    “Do you have my reward?” the brown-clad man asked. The black-clad man reached into his black jacket.
    “Yes,” the grey-clad man said. The black-clad man fixed his gaze on the brown jacket in front of him.
    “Where is it?” the brown-clad man asked. The black-clad man smiled.
    “Here,” said the black-clad man. There was a click.
    Two minutes before closing time, the man in the grey suit pushed the body of the man in the brown suit backwards off the stool so that it landed sprawling on the floor, the overcoat of the man in the black suit cushioning the rough floor and saving it from the splatters of blood that were emitted from the torn and oozing brown fabric. The grey-clad man gripped the ankles of the corpse, while the black-clad man firmly supported its shoulders.
    Their shoes thumped heavily. The door-chime sounded. A car engine started, revved, and was gone.
    One minute before closing time, the bartender sighed as he came out of the backroom and looked around the bar. One glass that was almost empty and two that were almost full sat guiltily on display. He took the glasses and dumped them in the sink, although not before he took a sip of the Scotch. When all was clean and tidy in the bar, he stepped outside and locked the door, giving the chime one last jangling tug.

T. G. 12/3/20

In Death Let Me Not Be Arrayed

In death let me not be arrayed

In flowers lovingly displayed,

Nor precious cloths of silk and gold,

Nor gems that earthly value hold.

But dress me all in purest white,

That you may know I walk in light;

And lend me one strand of your hair,

That you may know I'll meet you there.

T. G. 11/22/20

Feast of Christ the King

Approach of the Night; Break of Day

Approach of the Night
(To those who are certain it is coming)

Now the light is sinking fast.
We cling to hope that it will last;
For if it fades, all things are o'er,
But if it stays, I die no more.

Now the light is almost gone.
We fear the night and hope for dawn.
We, silent, hide from all the fray,
And, blind, we shiver and decay.

Now the light is gone, below
The earth, and all we had will go.
The whirling night's a mad maelstrom.
This is the time to say, "Salaam!"

T. G. 12/14/14

Break of Day
(To those who know that day follow night)

The Dark is all around us now.
We still have hope, I know not how.
The dawn will come, we know it well.

We will escape this ghastly hell.

The sudden light, though just a line,

Tells us, "Everything will be fine."

We wait for daybreak, and for light.

Gone will be soon the dark of night.

The burst of day, the rising dawn!

The dark that filled the world is gone.

But those whose hearts were in despair

Only sufferings now must bear.

T. G. 12/14/14

The Mockingbird

We killed another mockingbird today.

It sang until we stole its breath away.

How long will we be tolerant of this?

We blind ourselves, for ignorance is bliss.

Upon the mockingbirds the bluejays tread,

Screeching loud until their song is dead.

How long can they endure and we oppress?

At their expense must we gain happiness?

We'll kill another mockingbird tomorrow.

We'll fill another heart with screaming sorrow,

Unless the jays may heed the Finch's word:

It is a sin to kill a mockingbird.

Unless we stop this horror long-entrenched

And let the power from our hand be wrenched,

The mockingbird will ever fear the jay,

And sing until we steal its breath away.

T. G. 6/2/20

Corona de Spinis

America! Your city streets lie desolate
Under the cold spring sky.
No longer do the thousands of pedestrians
And bikes and cars go by.
The pestilence, the scourge that strikes us at midday,
Has hushed our busy land.
Some see in this the end of all the human race,
Some see God's mighty hand.

What do I see? The world does not know suffering
The way its maker did.
God has something in store for us, although just yet
His plan from us is hid.
He wishes us to share the glory of His Cross,
And so He reaches down
To us, the world He made and loved and saved; to us
He gives His thorny Crown.

T. G. 4/6/20

Aorin

Leave that to me!
O foul mistress of the sea!
For ever since you took me,
Aorin always sings her songs of thee.

Therefore, leave not me,
Standing on this lonely isle,
Above the thorn and turnstile!
Aorin thou hast made to flee!

Never shall I see my love,
Unless you send me, like a dove
Flittering to the haven of Barniel;
Then the kiss of Aorin,
And not of thee,
I once more shall feel!

The End

T. G. 7/16/14

Ode to the Courage of a Warrior Returning from Battle

His battered shield hung on his back
In a loose and bloodstained manner;
Upon his broken spear there hung
A shriveled, tattered banner.
The cloak beneath his shield was torn
And bore much ruddy blood;
His hair was red, his hands were red,
His boots were caked in mud.
His helm was battered, dim and dented,
Hung beside his saddle:
For many a blow had come its way
During the bloody battle.
His gauntlets and his mail were torn,
His tunic and his cloak;
He holds his scabbard in his hand,
And his sword is broke.

This story may someday be lost,
With no one here to tell,
But this warrior's courage should be sung
And, sounding in the dell,
Shall come and be this age's help;
This age's courage too:
Then men will rise in bright array
And glorious deeds they'll do!

T. G. 2014

Spring Snowstorm

I saw a single snowflake flutter, falling to the ground.
I saw a second snowflake, then I saw them all around.
I watched the wind whip light, white wisps of effervescent ice.
I watched the whirling weather through the fresh-grown grasses slice.

The daffodils were whithering; their yellow hues grew dim.
The daffodils half-heartedly obeyed the weather's whim.
The air around me artfully each broken bloom displayed.
The air revealed each oak leaf and the grass's every blade.

T. G. 4/27/19

The Star Brand: Blackboot Johnny

The smell of sweat and leather came to Harry's nose as he crouched under the low, wooden porch. Someone must be nearby. He slowly and silently turned his head to look out between the rough oak supports. There, directly in front of his face, he saw a plain, black, shiny pair of leather boots. Stamped into the side of the left boot, just above the clasp of the spur, was a brand. It looked like a five-pointed star inside a double triangle. Harry looked down at his own left boot, where he too had a brand. The brand exactly matched, as his father said they would. He could hardly contain his excitement, but he knew he had to. If he tried to reunite with his long-lost brother now, he would be shot by the outlaw who was standing on the porch directly above him-- Randy Rifle.
Harry heard the boards groan as Randy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The other man didn’t move a muscle. Randy grunted, the way he did when he was trying to make a decision. It seemed the black-booted man was offering him some kind of choice. Randy Rifle shifted his weight again. Then he spoke.
“There ain’t room for more than one rustler in this town.” The gruff voice that came from above him was all too familiar to Harry.
“Well lucky for you,” said a strange voice, “I ain’t a rustler.” A white kerchief with some kind of brand on it fell to the ground next to the black boots. Suddenly there was a click. The boots disappeared with a flash and the sound of a struggle came from the porch. A gunshot sounded, but the struggle continued. Harry could see nothing except the dust that rained down onto him, but he could hear enough to know that they were fighting over one of Randy’s rifles. Knowing the two men would be occupied, Harry reached out and seized the kerchief, so he could examine it more closely. It had the brand of a rustler printed on it in black ink.
There seemed to be a lull in the struggle. The boards continued to creak as if one man was struggling to free himself from the other’s grip. From the other side of town, horse’s hooves could be heard. They stopped just out of the range of Harry’s vision. Then came the sound of a pistol being fired. A heavy weight dropped to the porch floor, sending another cascade of dust falling on Harry.
"Thanks, sheriff," the stranger said, stepping off the porch. The sheriff's steps came over to meet him, and both sets of boots appeared in Harry's vision. "I could've held him all day, but that wouldn't have been much help."
"Well, you'll make a fine deputy," the sheriff smiled. "Come see me at the station tonight." The sheriff's boots disappeared, and soon the horse could be heard cantering away through the town. Harry stayed perfectly still, as did his brother. Then the man knelt down, and his face appeared sideways through the supports. It was a clean-shaven face, hardened by experience, topped by a broad, black hat.
"Care to return that?" He reached out for the kerchief.
"John?" Harry stammered.
"I see my name precedes me," John smiled, "but perhaps not my reputation." He took Harry's hand and pulled him out into a standing position. "Where I'm from they call me Blackboot Johnny. I'm the new deputy."
"I'm Harry Wilford," Harry replied. Then he lifted his left foot and pointed to the boot's brand. "And I'm your brother."

The Stars

O Stars, you shining orbs of light,
You shards of flame that fill the night,
Tell me: was my vision true?
For if it was, you saw it too.

Was I, who was then but a boy,
Ever truly filled with joy?
Did she whose lips I thought I kissed
Only in my mind exist?

O Stars, you crystal balls of fire,
You eyes that burn with hot desire,
If happiness was ever true,
I find it now in only you.

T. G. 10/30/18

The Dream

Behind the stars, which in their rolling course
Do turn around the Earth and back again;
Beyond the "rolling spheres," and spires of shock
Which in the storms do punctuate the rain,
I wandered far, searching for the Light,
But what I found was only endless night.

And as I thought upon the light for which
I yearned with all my heart, I came upon
A gap in Earth, Sky, Sea, and memory,
And in I fell, I know not for what reason.
But as I fell, my soul asked, "Will I find
The Light which my own mem'ry has left behind?"

The Darkness all around me found a voice,
And, with a thunderous roar, it answered, "No."
Thus far, the Dark has proven to be true,
And Life, for me, is Misery, and Woe.
But there may come a time when I will find
The Light I seek, and leave the dark behind.

T. G. 10/12/14