The Baptism: a short story

Available on Twitter @1fjefp or on the Jef Peeples Facebook page.

Senior Poem 2013: 17

Standing on a hill, an arm’s length from the moon,

a small teary boy with a one-eyed bear in hand,

holds a balloon tethered to him by the thinnest string

while his face is pressed against the glass of stars.

A train coos a lullaby in the distance while

questions of truth and diligence babysit him.

Why is there hate? When is there pain?

What is a love? Where is hope?

How is alone?

In an empty room where teaching grew,

the desks face forward,

the lead desk abandoned.

Notes on conspiracies folded in corners of books of

Van Gogh.  Starry Nights became dark when the stars fell from

canvas leaving melancholy swirls.

And I at 17

wander to places

too empty to share with company,

too lonely for invitation,

wondering if he or she this young

has such desolate places,

impoverished nightscapes

where cold winds of youth

rattle deserted cans of doubt,

the grime of lust and betrayal smeared on every building,

the scratches of rats’ feet across broken glass,

cat’s fighting in the

dark.

Cloudy, cloudy nights block

all light so that the neon sight of the gaudy motel

sign is the only guide for me.

There is a cloud which demands following,

a fire burning in the night

across forty year fields,

through emptiness where no IPhone rings or Starbucks grows,

over sandy thirsty hills where the ignorant rule and the

foolish gain power.

Lakes of tears and winds of cries

are stilled.

And there is meaning when there are no answers.

Standing on a hill, a ways from the moon,

a small teary boy, a one-eyed bear in hand,

holds a balloon tethered to him by the thinnest string.

Fingers loosen in release

to allow the prized to

join the stars.

Voice

from female fetus #55 million:

It is her Right.
I am not a woman yet.
I am a choice, and choices can be
reversed with consequences averted.
I am the formless void of what is to come.
I am the immigrant awaiting deportment.

If I had a name like
Amy or Jane
instead of one like
Regret or Tissue,
would it be more difficult to say goodbye before
hello?

You can click all day long on “like” on your Facebook;
You can research ‘till dawn DNA and my makeup;
You can turn away now and pray hard that I’ll shut up,
but you can’t give a voice to me now?

If I were born yesterday,
would I be less naive than to believe I’d be
more real,
more loved?