Poems & Other Musings

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

The bird’s nest is not
a consistent weaving
but a persistent tucking in
of loose ends
         R. T. Sedgwick

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 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

Poem                                     Nicole Dextras

nestled on a sill
harvested form-planted grass
the roots of a poem
          R. T. Sedgwick

dust rises over
the dead

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

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 

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