Words Without Name Volume 2
By Ted Finch
Copyright 2016 Ted Finch
Shakespir Edition, License Notes
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God sketched the western clouds of New Mexico tonight
He dabbed them pink and puffy with His brush,
Making new colors as the sun kisses the horizon.
The sweet Fall winds
Pull the leaves from the trees
Massaging the green into yellow, orange, and red.
A shaky hand reaches into his pocket
He steadies his weak body with the support
Of the bus stop
To his relief, he finds ½ a cigarette
Marked with someone’s maroon lipstick
“I think it’s from the woman I shared my lunch with”
Fumbling with his red $2 lighter,
He burns an already rough and calloused index finger
Finally, that familiar craving is cured.
Three deep breaths,
Exhaling through his nose he watches the smoke rise
He lets go of the bus stop sign,
Flicks the burning stick into the air, and wonders.
“What will I do when my afternoon craving is here?”
I am grateful
That you listen to me.
Flipping the switch
On the white wall plate
A light bulb illuminate,
How good it feels
To be in the light.
Faith is believing without seeing
It is walking out the door with a smile on your face
Without knowing there is a disaster
Waiting for you at your 10:30 appointment
Faith is waking up in the morning
Remembering your hopes and dreams
Pressing forward, doing what you can
Not realizing that you won’t be ready
for them for another twenty years
Faith is acting on a prompting
When you don’t know why
When logically it makes no sense
Only forgetting that your eyes are limited by time
They are not what God sees
Faith is continuing to walk,
Continuing to move even when
You start to understand what is required of you
When you start to recognize
The presence of heaven in the path ahead
Sitting on the edge of the seashore
Watching the waves crash on the sand
Listening to the music in the wind
Remembering adventures from the past
Seeing all the familiar faces
Hearing the sounds
That life’s experiences have brought.
Another cool morning when the steam
Rises off the side ponds of the
Great Salt Lake
The rising eastern sun blinds me
While it filters through the
Early morning haze
Listening to the voice behind the speakers
Talk about traffic, about politics
My Feathered Friend
My feathered friend,
I watch you soar as my fly bounces in the rapid ripples.
Your wings not yet reaching a full span or color, they’re still premature
As you circle above me, water runs around me,
my knees stiffen, the mountain runoff freezes me.
I keep watching your soar, while standing in frigid liquid.
Opening of the Eye’s Mind
Tiny thoughts bubble into ideas and
connections that open your eyes and
mind to the possibilities that
God sees from His eternal throne.
Letters and syllables start to jump off the page,
they fly from the speakers to your
mind in response to the question
that you still ponder quietly in your
Little flakes bob and weave,
darting through the air
as Old Man Winter exhales his
Little flakes pile on their siblings,
who were born from another
Little piles blown into drifts
as Jack Frost shovels a
path to make way for
his icy lane.
The Hiking List
Three boxes of waterproof matches
Five rolls of extra fluffy toilet paper
Fourteen gallons of water
One shower pump.
The skies are filled with a gray haze,
The ground’s only color is white.
The air has turned cold
So cold that when you inhale your nose sticks to itself,
Your hair turns frosty when it is wet.
Your cheeks get rosy, and your lips chapped
Now you know that winter is back.
Beading and bouncing
Puddles and soaked clothes
Spots dried on the windows
The picture frames hang on the wall
Covered with traces of dust and age
Great grandmother and father
Brother, sister, and other family members
I find the faces staring back at me
Telling me their story,
The ones I wasn’t there to see.
The old neighborhood trees don’t recognize me anymore.
Me, the five year old, and my daddy planted them.
He said they would add to the landscape,
But I don’t even know what landscapes are.
All I know is my summer chore list just got larger.
Please water all the trees for fifteen minutes a day.
This became my summer job.
Now, when I pass the circle at the end of Everon Drive,
The trees play with the clouds,
Never looking for us old kids.
Fall has come,
The leaves float and flutter down.
A naked tree is washed with winter’s wanting wind.
Now Old Man Winter touches her,
She shivers, shakes, and falls apart
Frozen by his cold winter heart.
The wind blows past his outstretched fingers
Grains of sand, salt, earth, and air
All particles of creation
Time flows like running water.
The third volume in a collection of poems. Poems about nature, God, family, parenthood, and love.