For The Difference

Mary Ainsworth and her strange invention:
Leaving no room for our intuition,
Consistently questions her good intention
To sort us into boxes,
Cause she failed to mention

There were only three
To divide society,
To classify the sea
Of diverse humanity.

The problem is blatant to a mathematician:
Variables are gathering awaiting his tuition
As differences are mounting demanding definition,
Running, roaming round,
Begging a technician.

Candace meant to shout.
Grown-ups only heard a whisper.
She struggled and she moaned,
Answered and went home.

How many dollars
Did they give her
To establish her report?
Justice can’t be served
Though she had her day in court.

Do you want to be born?
It was a loaded question,
Inspiring with finality
An end to the session.

Copyright 2014, L.L. Shelton

Inside Ethan Frome

Please, I beg you, 
Do not speak kindly to me.
Will you not employ those gentle words;
Words that imply a tenderness toward me,
Words indicating something beyond 
A superficial concern, 
Words proposing that you have cared for me, 
Words to suggest that you have truly seen me?

Again, I implore you, 
Do not ply me with such talk.
Will you not deploy that lasting language;
Language indicating that I am not alone,
Language that wraps round my mind 
As a downy shawl,
Language filling a moment with sweet assurance,
Language laced through with prohibited promise;

Offering to hide me from the ever present cold,
From frigid winter being most of all I’ve known,
Offering to shield me from the bitter wind of envy, 
From the bruising hail of callous rage, 
Offering to shelter me from the flood of frustrated hopes,
From the reckless malice of the unsettled,
Offering to protect me from the rising tide of hatred, 
From the penetrating gaze of the anguished?

Be still, I beseech you.
Your discourse quickens the imagination,
Pledging to spill over the edges of dreams;
To pour into consciousness,
To course down the breast,
To fill the hungry heart
With precious reminiscences 
Of the one who uttered it.

Therefore then
Wield cautiously that fertile expression
Pulsing so near the wasted barren land,
Giving birth to thought disallowed
T’would rush flaming toward 
The dry parched field,
Gently whispering round the ear,
Easily caressing the nape,

Thought delicately
Meandering round the bare shoulders,
Pressing toward the ever willing flesh,
Thought of being lifted, invited in, 
Comforted and made warm,
Threatening to send one
Storming brazenly forth 
To capture a place 
One is forbidden even to visit.

L.L. Shelton, Copyright 2014

The Cost of The Composition

It appears your world was too harsh,
To survive you were compelled to make a new one.
Being not God, there was no magic clay at your disposal,
No divine air to push into that dirt.
You did the only thing you knew;
You told yourself a new story,
One that made sense.

I watched as you constructed that fence,
To survive I was compelled to try to bring it down.
Being not God, I am astounded to have seen your careful path,
To a place where only you could go,
A place where only you would be.
I assumed you would be lonely.
I miss you so!

Copyright 2016. L.L. Shelton.

In David’s House She Cried

Can’t pretend I don’t remind you 
Of the past that you regret,
Can’t fail to see me clearly 
Though I want you to forget,

Forget you ever looked at me 
With hatred in your heart,
I didn’t ask you to despise me;
Please what was my part?

I want to understand 
To help us heal or say goodbye,
I’m tired from trying so hard 
To shield you from your eyes.

Copyright 2016. L.L. Shelton

Still

Still my darling
Upon my breast,
Sleep near to me,
Forever rest.

I am longing 
To protect you,
Keep you ever
Safe and blessed.

Still, you will grow
Wander further,
Dearest from 
My loving arm,

Learn of things
This world does offer,
May beset you,
Bring you harm.

Still, a lamp burns
In my window,
Calling you
To turn from fear,

Come my darling
Claim the peace,
That is your own,
To me draw near.

Still within me
No more to roam,
Full of faith now,
Coming home.

Copyright 2016. L.L. Shelton

Patriot On A Wire

American patriot
Teetering precariously 
On the edge of the ideal,

Wondering at motives 
Tied to hearts as they took root
In Native American soil,

Wondering at the precision
With which the Trade Centers collapsed
And where is the footage of the plane parked in the pentagon,

Wondering at the rise 
And at the possibility of a fall
Of so great a weight,

Hoping for salvation, 
For a return to the Creator
Of American Ideal.

Copyright 2016. L.L. Shelton

In The Land of Him and Me

I swing through the green
I glide by the trees
I travel on the breeze 
I soar with ease

I swim through the blue
I flow with the hue
I journey buoyantly 
I own the open sea

In my imagination
In the land of Him and Me
Where I am wild 
Where I live free

Copyright 2016. L.L. Shelton.

Being Mortal

Faint grows the glass
And fainter still 
This glass will come to see,
Until that day
He only knows
When I will cease to be.

Thought of that day
Serves to inspire
I tremble at the moment,
In gentleness
My Only Hope
Learned upon His summit.

I’d not suppose 
Absent regret
My eyes to close in slumber,
Yet know as sure
On His return
I’ll open them in wonder.

Copyright 2016. L.L. Shelton.