A procession of penitents
wanders like a column of
sleepwalkers into the town
where they’ve been told
the Benevolent One resides.
Sprinklers water tidy lawns
in front of synagogues and
banks, shopping malls,
a football stadium and
other places of worship.
A runty dog guides the
flock toward Paradise, but has
to run for its life when the pilgrims
find a cardboard sign taped
to the Benevolent One’s front door:
“Gone fishing,” it says;
“Back soon.”
© J.M.Keating 2013
In the gray light before dawn, raindrops
stutter on the roof as I lie alone in bed,
a blue blanket pulled up to my chin.
A sheet of rain hides the far shore of
the lake, but I can see an orange reflection
from the headlight of a motorcycle
shimmer on the road below the cottage.
Silver threads of rain slide down the
windows near the bed and two branches
of a maple tree bend and sway like
lovers, one above the other.
An angel could descend out of the windy
sky to tell me how immeasurably
perfect all this is, but I don’t need an angel
to remind me of what I know already.
I want to hear an angel tell me
about emptiness and silence. I want
to hear about the one who is not here.
© 2011 J.M.Keating
The yellow, three-masted tent has come down.
The yawning tiger, children’s laughter, clowns,
elephants and acrobats have packed up and
departed for another town.
All that remains here is a wind-blown field
and rows of high-rise buildings with indifferent
faces and a man playing an accordion to a
monkey on a leash beneath a solitary apple tree.
I think about you often, trying to remember
who you are and when we met
and what you may have looked like.
In that twilight did we see two fires blazing in the field?
Did we see two ravens rising from the apple tree,
leaving two white silhouettes behind?
The ravens must have heard the music and smiled
at the monkey but I wonder if they noticed me
or you– or whoever I was with
when the circus abandoned us for some other town.
© 2013 J.M. Keating