Inclined to Believe

The porch swing sways
carrying two worn souls
looking back
on two lovers
living in the moment
who became two expectant
parents planning their future

More than particles drifting
through space and time
The porch swing sways
baby blue paint cracking
on weathered wood
suspended by chains
crackling with rust
The porch swing sways
the gentle rock
back and forth
back and forth
the rhythmic pattern
of one life together
one continuous sway

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

Cherokee

Sitting outside the 7-eleven,
I couldn’t help
but ask his name:
Cherokee.

His Mother was 100% Native.
He’s been going by that name since the 60’s.
Said he’s from Shreveport, Louisiana.
I should have guessed by the song in his words.

Said he has kids – 5 in Georgia, 5 in Texas, 1 in Florida.
Thought about trying to get a church
to buy him a bus ticket to go see them.
16 grandkids, only met a quarter of them.

Showed me his harmonica,
the only thing he’s never sold.
Played me a quick song, then said
“Yeah we made it big in Tennessee.”

Lived with a señorita
in Beaumont for about 7 months.
She tried to teach him Spanish,
But he couldn’t take working

in the grape fields.
Thought about going to Mexico,
but couldn’t understand the language.
Got hit by a car in Panama City,

and lived in a old folks home
until he was out of the wheel chair.
Then he hit the road again,
“goes where the wind blows.”

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

Teacher’s Hands

Her two petite units of five,
soft and brown
like late fall leaves,
move back and forth
assisting her words
in preparing the young minds
sitting in the cluster of desks.

Her index finger glides along the page
like a model on a catwalk,
moving gracefully down each line.
As if practicing paleography,
she helps her students
find meaning in the words.

Her ring finger crowned
with a silver band, guarded
safely between the middle and little finger.

Her palms gently pat
shoulders as they pass by,
praising their performance
multiplying and dividing,
and waving them onto the bus.

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

Working Class Poor

Three groggy kids tumble out of bed.
She dresses her two sons in spiderman
hand-me-downs and her daughter
in pink princess clothes from Goodwill.
Huddled together on the corner, they wait
for the bus as she drives off to work.
   
She knows her customers
by the brand of cigarettes they buy.
“Two packs of Marlboros in a box”
 and a breakfast sandwich.”
“A pack of Newports and a lottery ticket”
“That’ll be $8.75,” more than
   
she makes in an hour.
Between transactions she calculates:
water bill and groceries this week,
next week rent. She feels lucky,
until Fridays when the numbers
are never enough.

After work, as dusk is creeping closer,
she arrives home to three hungry
mouths, three pairs of bright
eyes, and three sets of homework.
The clock ticks on even after
she has clocked out.

No time for the piles of dirty laundry
and the sink full of dishes,
she is treading water.
   
Three groggy kids fall into bed.
Chaos rests within her walls
as she drifts to sleep
to the glow of late night television.

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

The Rabbi’s Last Passover

I have spent myself day and night
to open their eyes. Other Rabbis
left them to serve the Romans
and the Sea. I called them out.
Now, as we recline at this borrowed table,
I look around at their young joyful faces,
sons of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,
they have become my friends,
my brothers. I know they will soon question
everything. For a short time they will wonder,
like Job. They will feel the sting of betrayal,
pierced by its cold blade, and I too will taste its pain.

These sons of Moses watch
as I take the bread. They have been taught
from childhood its significance; soon they will see
this feast in new light, tasting its fresh meaning.
I pass them the bread, my heart beats faster
knowing the pain to come, I try to explain
what they cannot yet grasp,
my body torn, my blood poured out
on Jerusalem’s dusty and forsaken hill,
for these sons of David and his Mighty Men.
I pass them the cup, the wine paints their lips.
They will turn the world upside down.

I breathe deep
as Judas shifts in his seat.
“Go ahead my friend,
do what you have to do,”
I tell him and in a panic he leaves.
The rest, for the moment, oblivious.
The night is just beginning,
darkness will try to prevail
only to be overthrown
by the rising Sun.
In this I rest.

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

Alhamdulillah (Thanks be to God)

In the old city, narrow streets swayed
with movement as our feet dodged
cabs whizzing by. I followed
close behind the man who just tried
to sell me hash. I was not looking for
that kind of escape. Instead, I came searching
simply for dialogue. Our path led
up ancient steps through
a crude door. Inside his home, he smiled
and motioned us to sit
as his wife served us tea.

He asked me about celebrities
like Brittany Spears and President Bush.
“Are all Christians immoral?” He asked.
We exchanged our polar paradigms
politely as we sat drinking
unceasing amounts of
mint tea, known as Berber whiskey.
I tried to save Jesus from Pop Culture,
but he just wanted to know why
we did not care about Palestine.

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

Pure Life

Outside the window
lush green trees sway
to the rhythm of wild
rain drops.
They are willing
players in this symphony
of tropical sound. We are inside,
all around us, this eternal
spring time production.

A living tower breaches
through the floor, extending
through the center of our shelter,
protruding out of the roof, reaching
for the clouds, holding us up.

She is next to me, here,
where hours pass like days
as we breathe in the canopy
and rest in its song.
We mimic the embrace
of this tree and house affair.
Two now one
Together.

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012