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."