There is a heart with wings
That flies beneath a golden sun that illuminates its shape
Brightening the dark of its red
Sometimes the heart moves gently
Jostling in the air that surrounds it
It does not lower or fade, at least as the mortal eye can see
The heart is and shall be eternal, from some points of view
Made of paint, nails and wood
Containing a message, if not possessing a name
Gene G. McLaughlin 2014
March is ever undecided
Nothing in the cold wind
Or the warming air
Betrays its mind
Or intentions
I’ll decide
When I decide
March decries
Gene G. McLaughlin 2014
Linked in my mind
Through the hazy smoke of years
Burned by
Without me noticing
In the record store
They once again look at me
From the dusty bins
Side by side
Their world
That which was
Seems impossible
As today will seem
In 50 years
Gene G. McLaughlin 2014
His heart is not stone
But metal
He is of man
Not man
Among the grapes he sits
Fragile
Every dying
He does not smile
He merely is.
Gene G. McLaughlin 2014
Once there was a dark blue sky
That a fire burned beneath
The flames were born of
Magma bubbling underneath
The crust and stone of the rock
The cosmos did bequeath
The forming was slow and steady
Selections were rapidly made
Until once a man and woman
Sat one day alone in a glade
They made the choice to name themselves
To call their chosen pairing love
Upon a tree near to them
Perched a pure white dove
They called the dove a thing of peace
Then decorated the tree
With things strewn throughout the glade
As clouds approached from the sea
The cloud became snow in the sky
The tree covered in the coldest white
They light fires to warm them from the cold
Sitting up through the night
They were joined by others soon
To sit before the tree and flames
Soon the others before the fire
Choose to also take names
Still in the winter we sit before the fire
With our decorated tree
We ask for help to make it through the dark
As the flames dance proud and free
Gene G. McLaughlin 2013
When emaciation had taken its toll
His eyes were sunken in, closed, and hollow
The life slipping from them slowly
Understanding was no closer
All that was left for him was the end
The final stages of the suffering that haunted him
The hunger that held tight to him in these final moments
The desire and want and need
All would be gone soon
Nothing was left to take
Nothing was left to give
The last step was the loss of what he saw before him
The blood slowly coursed through him
He opened his eyes
The tree and air and grass and sun all were in front of him
This was the moment
Maybe this had always been the moment
Maybe this would always be the moment
There was color in the world
There was a color in all things
There was the dark red of his blood
There was the brown bark of the tree
There was the green of the grass
There was the golden yellow of the sun
There was the white swirling wind of the storm of existence
Lingering and circling in the air around all of it
There were his eyes
Through which his slowly diminishing life force met the storm
He faced the end
He saw the storm was not actually white
The storm was all colors
The storm was everything at once
The storm was always there
He had never seen the storm
Gene G. McLaughlin 2013
All is forgiven
In the end
The leaves fall to ground
The sins of summer
Are forgotten
By the colorful silent observers
As their roots
Absorb their memories
In spring
Their brethren
Will view the season of rebirth
As something new
With no judgement
Only hope
In brilliant green
Gene G. McLaughlin 2013
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