Richard Weaver

Second Helpings are a given |PDF

 

A Man raised his avuncular fists

towards the gray sky, which promptly trembled.
He opened his hands and spread 12 fingers wide,
and with uncut nails poked holes in the clouds
so rain fell where he stood, unhatted. The same man’s
hair rose skyward to discharge its disappointment.
Bright arcs unearthed upwards in the heavens
and beyond. Having had his say, having said
though unspoken his ungrounded anger, he lowers
his arms to stand scarecrow-like where doubt
and drought had gathered to reign. As day released
into night, he remained sentinel, arms at the ready.
Moonlight falling through his coal eyes.

 

No Exit at other end


Sign at Entrance to Evergreen Cemetery

It was always good for a laugh
when I rode by in a car or on bike.
I did once drive inside the gates
to test the validity of the sign’s absoluteness.
Not even a chained gate on the other side.
No way to pass over there. Nor an opening
small enough to squeeze through.
Even a dyslexic ghost would having trouble
slipping out.

Humor in the face of doubt and death
for those who see skeletons grin, and think
Damn, he needs a dentist. And Bad.
The playful accidents of advertising language.
Reminds me of a sign I saw in the Big Easy.
A butcher shop window on of the cross streets
deep in the French Quarters. An openly gay
neighborhood. All deliveries in rear. Ouch.
An obvious truth trapped in an inescapable
dilemma. And No Exit. An obvious homage
to Jean Paul S. As well as a slander of the eternal
nature of evergreens. Or perhaps an observation
that no care keeper could ever hope to keep.

 

Falling angels descend unannounced

on someone’s 21st birthday party. Uninvited and unwelcomed.
Surely such things are choreographed? Dressed like sailors
after a 2 week shore leave, they appear unsober, mid-ceremony,
as companionable as a flatulent pitbull. The invited guests
wear a brave front, umbrellas flared, drinks dropped, all eyes
and elbows, united as farce, unequal to any task. More angels
drop in; not all wearing parachutes. A general scrum beings
amongst the winged ones and unhinged ones, a gathering
of biblical feathers, and those who have tired of the load.
A chaos supreme breaks out as they negotiate who is whom
or not, and what is to be done. Meanwhile, back at the birthday
ranch house, the host and the most bewildered honoree,
have joined foreheads in hopes of a Vulcan mindmeld.
Failing that, the good mother offers her daughter a stiff shot
of Reposado which both quickly scarf down. No time wasted
with unnecessary limes. Or the god-forsaken abomination, salt.

 

A Father has clearly pissed

himself and his khaki shorts
at the beach. He struggles northward,
drink in hand, passing his wife
and toddling two year old, then returns
minutes later, drink in hand,
only to stop where the dune rises
to stoop and then paw at the sand
trying to capture something he’s seen,
a lizard, perhaps a grasshopper.
He rises, left hand clenched tight,
clearly proud of his capture, renewed.
Sees his son 100 feet away, and plods
upward and out towards the water,
trophy catch in hand, a gift for the boy
who is already running, diaper soaked
towards the ocean, mother in pursuit,
both oblivious to his sunset offer.

 

 

BIO

Richard Weaver resides in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college, and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). Some recent acceptances: Hamilton Stone Review, The Cape Rock, Conjunctions, Kestrel, Sequestrum, & Spank the Carp.

 

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