The Sky is Not the Limit
nor is the sea with its endless
churning
and certainly not the heart
pumping its life-giving blood
and spreading God’s love of mankind
In primary school when I opened
a new box of crayons
my eyes and fingers were drawn
to red yellow and blue
a trinity that creates all color
a reminder of that limitless presence
and power of the Holy Trinity
God the Father
God the Son
God the Holy Ghost
R. T. Sedgwick
Bird Nest
The bird’s nest is not
a consistent weaving
but a persistent tucking in
of loose ends
R. T. Sedgwick
The Three Graces
At the Hermitage in St. Petersburg
I spend hours studying the scantily-
draped figures of The Three Graces
view them from every possible angle
Someone asks me why and I reply
They’re women I love them
Months later in a dream I stroll
naked along a secluded garden path
where I come upon the same trio
undraped and pearled with dew
Beauty Charm Joy
they’re women I know them
they invite me to lie with them
We make love and I turn to marble
They’re women I want them
each a touch of you the woman
I want the woman I know
and yes the wife I love
R. T. Sedgwick
Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery
Fort Rosecrans photo/collage, with permission from Randy Gieser
Have you ever had the patience, alas
to count to 101,079?
Or to walk the salt-resistant grass
and touch the headstones in each long line?
To think of each warrior buried there
knowing their lives have been split in two
half for their carefree heroic youth
and half for the freedom of me and you?
If so, you couldn’t have stemmed the flood
of tears that surely blurred your eyes
as the spirit dips His brush in blood
to paint Old Glory in the skies
R. T. Sedgwick
Pot-bound
nestled on a sill
harvested form-planted grass
the roots of a poem
R. T. Sedgwick
War
the sun rises over
the dust
grief rises over
the living
the living rise
to make more dust
the dust rises
and the sun rises over
the dust
R. T. Sedgwick
The Stone Mason
By heart he knows the geometry
line of garden wall
arc of fireplace opening
truncated cone of planter
He gathers his raw material
from the edges of plowed fields
whre farmers have piled
their unwanted fieldstone
He chooses each one for shape
pillows, loaves, footballs, hockey pucks
for grain and color
mottled marble, fools gold
His tools are the hammer, the chisel
the trowel his fingertips
dried and skinless unprotected
by finger-worn gloves
He is Michelangelo in reverse
choosing, chiseling
setting precise shapes in mortar
erecting sculptures of stone
I would gladly design his flag:
hammer, chisel, trowel, heart
on a field of red for strength
letters across the top, FATHER
R. T. Sedgwick
Listen to: The Stone Mason
The Garden
on a bleached and barren
rock-scrabble hillside
near Tijuana
a sower
plants seeds—
twelve steps
made of gravel-filled tires
lead up
to a graffiti-clad
worship hall
where the giant softball
and blond maiden
piñatas
welcome all—
the sower is careful
to keep his seeds
from falling on pathways
to be trampled under foot
or devoured
by hungry birds
careful to keep them
from falling on rocks
to be withered
or choked
among thorns
he plants his seeds
squarely
on paper plates
of children
knowing
that in this good ground
seedlings will flourish
bring forth fruit
a hundred fold
R. T. Sedgwick
Listen to: The Garden