[in memory of J.T. Little as beautifully profiled by Mary Guiunca in the Winston Salem Journal some years ago:
J.T., quiet friend of many, loved by his family, coworkers, secret wonderful poet and writer known only to God, died age 48 under mysterious circumstances but not more mysterious than his articulate soul]
somewhere on a road off of heaven
there's a bookstore or a library
a little under the undergrowth
of weeds of ferns and mushrooms spiraling
after rains their unexpected galaxies...
that contains- behind
some chain linked fence filled with bright sparrows
the books people meant to write;
you know, the dream books
constructed partially on yellow tablets
on coffee breaks, at odd moments
in between scoldings, scary tasks
tongue lashings perhaps or bus stop drizzle;
or simmering in summers county seat or
beneath an overhang corrugated, rusty
a little dusty but you're not there
but somewhere else with fresh lined paper
ball point pen in cadillac two toned green
or some other favored colour
writing the scenes for your first play?
rearranging the stage directions
of a life that had
yet to open crammed to the timed to the minute
of a kindness little repaid a smile in a
glorious daydream anchored now
in Eternity angels jostling to see
over his beatified shoulder
the latest lines in gold
on earth on earth,
untold except by Mary Guiunca
after the fact of his fortunate, unfortunate going away...
mary angela douglas 10 february 2016
J.T., quiet friend of many, loved by his family, coworkers, secret wonderful poet and writer known only to God, died age 48 under mysterious circumstances but not more mysterious than his articulate soul]
somewhere on a road off of heaven
there's a bookstore or a library
a little under the undergrowth
of weeds of ferns and mushrooms spiraling
after rains their unexpected galaxies...
that contains- behind
some chain linked fence filled with bright sparrows
the books people meant to write;
you know, the dream books
constructed partially on yellow tablets
on coffee breaks, at odd moments
in between scoldings, scary tasks
tongue lashings perhaps or bus stop drizzle;
or simmering in summers county seat or
beneath an overhang corrugated, rusty
a little dusty but you're not there
but somewhere else with fresh lined paper
ball point pen in cadillac two toned green
or some other favored colour
writing the scenes for your first play?
rearranging the stage directions
of a life that had
yet to open crammed to the timed to the minute
of a kindness little repaid a smile in a
glorious daydream anchored now
in Eternity angels jostling to see
over his beatified shoulder
the latest lines in gold
on earth on earth,
untold except by Mary Guiunca
after the fact of his fortunate, unfortunate going away...
mary angela douglas 10 february 2016
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