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

Hey! Heat the High Sky's Eye Sends Streaming

Hey! Heat the high sky’s eye sends streaming;

Scattering, dispelling shivers. Sweat

Pours from pores, pooling, making wet

Rivulets run down my skin glass-gleaming.

The bees ‘neath roots of trees stay, from the steaming

Heat to hide, so light-glare not to let

Roast, boil, toast, broil their colony, their set

Of gold-set jets, of golden honey dreaming.

Behold! Behind the beehive tree, the green

Shade shelters from the shimmering sheen

Of Phœbus’ fire the pool, quite cool, quite clean.

Come, cast away all care! Let us equip

Ourselves to swim; our steaming stockings strip,

As well as shoes and shirt, and take a dip.

T. G.

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

Gettysburg

Surely the shells never shattered the silence
Of these slopes, grass-strewn; this solemn sky
Cannot have canopied the cannon-fire
And cavalry charges, musket-shots — can it?
We went to war with one another, brother
Firing leaden rounds into his brother,
In farmlands, fresh-seeding crops of corn, barns
Burning as the shrapnel shattered them.
And yet no echo of those blasts now shakes
The mournful hills; the fences quiver not
Beneath the thunderous dust of Pickett's charge;
The graves of the fallen, gray stone under blue sky,
Lie undisturbed by musket-ball; and yet
The struggle has not ended for which they died.

T. G. 12/31/19

Thoughts while Waiting

I wait—and the sounds of the night fill my ears,
Reviving old childhood nursery fears.
The lonely owl mourns for the lover he lost,
And the waves on the lake below me are tossed.
The fear of the dark is the first one I feel:
What could be out there? It makes my head reel
To think of the things that I used to dread;
But the very word "used" clears it all from my head.

I wait—and soon one more fear comes back;
Of dead things, and ghosts, and bodies who life lack.
The lonely owl could be the voice of a ghost,
And the waves on the shore the tramp of the dead host.
The silver moon could be the face of my mother,
Or that of my father, or uncle, or brother:
But all this reminds me of why I am here,
And I push down, suppress, give no heed to this fear.

I wait—and I fear again, I know not how.
Death itself is the thing that I fear most right now.
I remember the day that my mother passed on
(Or her brother-in-law, or her husband or son)
And I fear that my fate may be soon quite like theirs;
All the mourners around, living sorrow in chairs.
I cry: "I will wait! I'll go on with my life!"
And I go in the house and I put back the knife.

T. G. 6/27/17

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

Thanksgiving

I thank you, God, because I still can breathe,
And smell the roses and the daffodils,
And smoke air currents all around us wreathe,
And clippings drifting from the new-shorn hills.

I thank you, God, because I'm still alive,
And I can see white crocuses spring up,
And yellow bees swarm from a golden hive,
And green grass, blue sky, and a golden cup.

T. G. 4/23/18

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

The Knight Errant

The Knight rides forth! His bannered spear
           Is raised against the skies.

He bears his golden shield, whose mark
           Is like the flag he flies.
His helm above his face is set,
           Like to a shining crown,
And from atop his noble steed
           With pride he gazes down.

No battle yet has marred his mail,
           No conflict cleft his shield;
No blood has he from any drawn,
           Nor has his blood been spilled.
His or and azure banner still
           No tide of war has torn.
His honor all is vested in
           The House where he was born.

The road he rides will lead him through
           Harsh trials of the heart.
His skills with sword and tongue will all
           Be tested, torn apart;
Some battles will be lost be him,
           And others bravely won,
But wound nor wile shall slay him 'till
           His errant days are done.

Then rides he on! Now bannerless,
           His spear trails on the ground.
His golden shield lies broken where
           It never shall be found.
His helm he holds in hand: and ever,
           'Till the day he dies,
His humble face is lifted up
           To gaze into the skies.

T. G. 4/3/20

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

The Thought

I thought a thought, and all at once
I ruled the Earth and Sky.
My power encompassed everything
And I could never die.

I sallied forth from a glorious place,
A palace of gold and light,
And with my armies of demi-gods
I vanquished Day and Night.

My hands were strong and powerful;
I wrenched a sunbeam free,
And I created countless things:
The beam was a chisel for me.

I wrought a world where Order stood,
And Beauty's sway was strong.
I made great, yawning valleys,
And terraces high and long.

I lost it all, my pow'r and glory,
When the thought vanished from my mind,
And ever, in my memory,
I could not that thought find.

T. G. 10/12/14

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."

A Confession

O God who made the earth, the sky and sea,
Our hearts are restless 'till they rest in thee.
You made us in your love to live as one,
As well as with the Spirit and the Son.
You made and are the Savior of all men;
Come fill us with your peace and love again!
Although to wander far from you we're free,
Our hearts are restless 'till they rest in thee.

O God, who calls us when from you we flee,
Our hearts are restless 'till they rest in thee.
All things that are both beautiful and true,
As well as good, can only come from you.
To hear your word you gave to us our ears;
You gave us hearts to find you through our tears;
All that you made, you gave us eyes to see;
Our hearts are restless 'till they rest in thee.

O God, who made the world so grand and vast,
Who made the snail slow and the falcon fast,
The grass green and the sunshine in the sky,
The white and changing clouds that hurry by,
The stars gigantic, burning red and blue,
The largest people and the smallest too:
O God, who made all this and who made me,
Our hearts are restless 'till they rest in thee.

T. G. 10/4/18

A Sonnet for Spring

The world is dead; the earth is cold and bare,
Though frosts are gone and melted is the snow.
The grass turned brown and yellow long ago,
And trees from leafless branches starkly stare.
The heavy greyness of the clouded sky
Threatens thunder, beguiles with hope of rain
That does not come. The Winter's deathly stain
Is left upon the lifeless land to lie.
But from this grey decay and yellow death,
A single blade of green, a living sprout,
Arises, opens out, new hope to bring.
And rains shall come, and breezes warm as breath;
From darker clouds than these has struggled out
The Sun ere now. Have hope! Await the Spring!

T. G. 3/29/20

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

Light from Light

Bright shines the feathered flyer, in the morning Sun
That rises red or golden, going right
Up the upper airs, which in the night
Do deliver darkness deep blue. Run
The clouds, scattered, from the scoring heat
Of thirteen thousand nuclear furnaces
And more; tell me what the Sun surpasses
Not, nor tramples 'neath its flaming feet.

Not what, but who—for He is not a "what"
Who gives to gaseous giants the golden glow
And to deft daffodils their dainty shine
Of yellow lock-like petals. For the hot
Aura of Orion and, below,
Gold ore are delved from one eternal mine.

T. G. 4/10/19

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