March 19-25, 2018: Poetry from Deborah McGaffey and Timothy Dyson

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Deborah McGaffey and Timothy Dyson

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Deborah McGaffey
DeborahMcGaffey@live.com

Bio (auto)

Deborah McGaffey is a Southern California born writer, currently residing in Chatsworth, California in the shadow of the Santa Susanna Mountains. She has one book of poetry published, Rebel Heart, and, of course, more in the works. Visit her on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2018, and owned by Deborah McGaffey. and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Catalyst

Silver leaves trickle
Down the wind 
Like so many glass etchings
Belonging to the fragile night 

They told me I couldn’t write like this
So I stood
With my back to their ignorance
And placed my hand
On the wild wind

 

 



Timothy Dyson
tsd7348@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Timothy Dyson retired from corporate world years ago and began writing poetry after a thirty year absence. He has been been lucky enough to have many poems published.

The following work is Copyright © 2018, and owned by Timothy Dyson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


A New Ruler Emerges

Near the end of the tarnished golden period
came the self-absorbed prince;
his rise marking the final descent
into the long swirling whirlpool of slight.
The teachers and truth-tellers 
banished to common sense 
and the few remaining wise men
exiled to the dead slope of circumstance.
No one noticed some of the official lenses
had been specifically modified.
Once a common citizen gained access
the magic roses were plainly in view.


After Reading of the Beating Death
of a Two-Year Old Boy

Suns and moons
swell then fall across changing channels,
sad shades make a night of day.
Heaven, and there is one,
wends its way above bleak cloud.
And the deity, at least today,
needs to be kind,
a grandmother’s hand.
Neither solace nor wisdom
have I to offer or to withhold.
But, I know what I know:
a beaten child is the bluntest instrument.
When the divers emerge
and the sea’s given up her dead,
place a cactus wreath in the turbid water.
Face west, let the wave mist
fracture into wild tears.
And after the bodies are laid neatly
on the ancient quay,
the slain child comes out to play.

 

 

 



 


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