Poetry

 
 
 
It's a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
 
 
It's a good thing to be drunk on Sundays
because the cat is out of the house
and the car is fixed
for once the cold has missed this city
this month
the lamplights breathe, sigh
a gentle exhale
to the summer swells
smog and emissions
pool and swirl in the oilmist
on the maroon asphalt
grass that grows in the dark
cooling
and the neighbor's light is broken and silent
my rest is calm in my easy chair
the woes have flown
out the window with the cat
and I know you will be home later.

 
 
© 2005 Anthony Sell
Originally published in "The Sound of Poetry" CD Poetry Collection & Hardbound Edition, International Library of Poetry, Howard Ely, Editor. Editor's Choice Award.
 
 

 
 
Insufficient
 
 
I suppose it would not have been much to simply sit there and listen.
But it began again, that same argument that we've been having
for the past ten years.
"Listening never hurt anybody," my Mother would say to me
as I'd ball my fists and cover my eyes.
All the same, I had neither the patience nor the time to learn about
how wrong I was again.
 
So I left.
And in doing so, lost another opportunity.
 
When they found you the next morning,
it had happened sometime in the night.
"A look of calm," Mother said.
They called me at work, some hours later, and a meeting I left
went on without me. When the tears finally came, weeks had gone by.
Days of confusion, moments of realization, and hours of memories
that all had to be sorted and properly disposed of,
like the surgical gloves I wore when I last took your hand.

 
 
© 2002 Anthony Sell
Originally published in "Clouds Across the Stars, Letters from the Soul Series" (Page 109). Noah Bevins, Editor. MD: Watermark Press, The International Library of Poetry
 
 

 
 
© 2003 Anthony Sell
Originally published in "The Best Poems and Poets of 2003" (Page 1). Howard Ely, Editor. MD: Watermark Press, The International Library of Poetry
 
 

Snowfell

Outside it came down
like sloppy cold rain
in waves it came
melting on the slate
damp blanket of
a miserable night,
the snow fell in sheets
and the wind hailed ice
against the window panes,
a persistent grating sand,
the snow fell.

This ridiculous clinging winter
one last fight before spring
throws its might against the
shingles and shakes
tree limbs and parked cars
bury it all it laughs, with
one last furious chance to make things
difficult as hell, the snow fell.

Winter is a time of biding
as fall stores dwindle
the firelight rekindles
memories of better times
in warmer places, of
sunlit mornings that were not gray
and many more hours in the day
before the snow fell.

A slow rainy spring
will gather in the wind
and gardens, blinking green
trees leaves and summer yawns
red and yellow dawns
dewy morning spider webs
and cloudy skies
but first the winter dies
and so the snow fell.

© 2007 Anthony Sell

Today I walked with Death.

 
Today I walked with death
who showed me the funeral march.
In a slow lock step we followed
your wheelchair to the time of your breath.
Today a man was needed
and I became that man
and walked with the end.
A solemn face and competent stride
his compassion held a gentle grace.
I found the gaze that made many
uncomfortable.
Stand aside for he who walks,
Shuffle among doubts
and cast off regrets,
shake loose the obligations
that tug lightly at your gown.
 
Today I sat with death
stared into his face
and had a quiet conversation.
We spoke in shadows
of times to come
and things that should not be
forgotten.
 
Today I learned my role with death
a bearer of unfortunate tidings.
I will carry this noble burden
and through me, you shall pass
in gay decorum, loved,
supported, with heartfelt vigil.
To all things an end,
and to all
an acceptance of change.

 
© 2009 Anthony Sell