A face is filled with features, many facets, different forms,
The strongest traits collected from those who came before.
Mother’s eyes are smiling over grandpa’s noble chin…
The cheeks of some great ancestor emerging from within.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
Tag: poetry
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Apostle Paul
(My deepest sympathies)
Today life’s strange journey, it seems anything, but long.
We’d only just now figured out the rhyme and rhythm of our song.Though the melody is bitter and the harmony seems blue. Still that funky driving
bass line keeps us moving, hell we’re all just passing through.And when our loved ones leave us, there’s a grief that lingers on,
a hollow empty heartache despite the singer or the song.But an apostle’s job is to lead the way, to inspire and press on.
To be remembered every day long after they have gone.
And who should fit that moniker, far better than them all?
A gentle, sweet, and giant, man; a loving soul named Paul.Some men practice politics, others medicine or law,
but fewer practice what they preach, in matters great or small.Like a rare endangered species his absence has an impact on us all.
A lasting pain while we remain,
for even giants fall.by D. Ryan Lafferty
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What a Difference You’ve Made
(Mrs. Adams’ Last Day at School)
The last summer comes quickly and it’s one day away
The halls are all empty, no more laughter and playAs you close out your grade book and turn in your keys
Emotions they mingle with fond memories…For thirty-five years you planned and you dreamed,
each day filled with lessons, directions, and themes.Cut patterned borders and colorful frames
once hung on the walls with operations and names.The dry erase board is faded and grey
well-worn through instruction, repetition, refrain.Your once-cluttered desktop sparkles and shines
The empty room echoes with what’s left behind.Paper and pencils, rulers, stencils, and graphs;
addition, subtraction, the basics of math.The songs that delighted, the stories you told
the problems you solved being brave and so bold.The joy that you shared was infectious it’s true,
making us laugh whether frazzled or blue.Now that the luncheons are finished
And your knick-knacks are all tucked away.
Your paperwork’s signed, no goodbyes left to say
As you look over your classroom to remember this day.A tear drop, a smile as you silently pray,
and briefly you’ll wonder if only I’d stayed…but stop and remember…
You’ve done all your best and what a difference you’ve made.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
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Ladybug
On a yawning Sunday afternoon,
a ladybug shuffled across my field of view.A faithless pilgrim setting out upon the spackled-plaster
winter wastes of my bedroom ceiling.I watched her, inching along, as I rested within a feathery shell
folded from my down comforter.Surely someone has already written this poem down,
for here is the perfect place to reflect upon the size, scope, and perspective of life,
the power of love, and the nature of existence itself.Not to mention identity, pronouns, and the brevity of living.
The color fading from her shell betrays the truth in this November sun,
but I instead turn my thoughts to the poem that I was certain she had been writing
about me.Here she sees yet another pitiful giant burrowed so deeply in his feathered nest,
sleeping away the embarrassment of riches granted him by Father Time.She pauses for a moment, taking it all in, then shrugs and sighs.
Her focus never leaving those lazy thought-filled eyes — they watch her in genuine malaise as she lives her best life, one spite-filled centimeter at a time.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
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Know it All
I wish that I could say I was sorry to interrupt you,
but you were using the wrong fork for this course of the meal.And, by the way, that crystal glass of Riesling should be held by the stem,
rather than being warmed by the delicate palm of your hand.I just needed to share that corned beef and cabbage, even Saint Patrick himself,
weren’t really Irish at all… for whatever that means.It was all I could do to remind you that the word you chose
to end that last sentence with was, in fact, a preposition.I thought it absolutely essential that I tell you that root beer is nothing like
sarsaparilla or that the stringy white webbing that you’re tearing away from your
orange contains all of the bioflavonoids, the most nutritious part of the fruit.
In fact, citrus oils themselves are known to spark the creative imagination,
or so studies have shown.For anyone else, my love, I’d have just rolled my eyes,
but for you, I’ll take the time.by D. Ryan Lafferty
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Portmanteau
or “Chicken Salad After All”
They say that Lewis Carroll coined the term “portmanteau”
after a double-sided suitcase of the same name.
Two halves crammed together, making up a whole.I resist the worn-out cliché, something about the best of both worlds.
So often the domain of the television commercial:
the pitchman, the shill, the jingle; shamelessly combining car and holiday together.
“Hondadays” and “Toytathons” clutter the calendar and mind.
Ceaseless noise without meaning.It seems unsatisfying to me.
Just like mixing and matching those tiny sandwich triangles at a church luncheon.
An offering of fellowship and refreshment; of mayo and salvation.Here three types of egg salad face off with at least four takes on tuna fish.
The phoned-in PBJ made with sweatshop peanut butter.
Some flavorless off-brand whose visage my pantry would shame.Not to mention everyone’s favorite, the sinfully salty deviled ham.
The kind they never get at home.Sandwiches, bodily broken and reassembled.
Frankenstein’s take on a crust of bread.This cacophony of smell is familiar as it swirls beneath the sweet-sharp
citrus notes of the orange sherbet. Frothing pastel glaciers soften and melt
as they float atop the fizzy tang of soda-spiked fruit punch.
A million tiny bubbles dance and sing amid the din and laughter of the flock.Every offering another step in the faithful procession toward the final course.
The steaming cups of coffee congregating around the alpha and the omega,
bathed in the steady red glow of the almighty percolator.How did the once quiet service place transform into this congenial space?
It’s purpose blended in some powerful way…
what was the word again?Now that I think about it, that last one just might have been chicken salad after all.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
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The Cold, Cold Winter Rose
The lovely daffodils of spring grow up far too early I suppose.
Their beauty shines so brightly in their neat untrammeled rows.But those flowers first to blossom are those fastest yet to leave.
Their fragile stems succumbing to those greedy, grabbing weeds.The tulips shoot directly aiming upward toward the sky.
Their beauty’s simply stunning as they capture every eye.While they glow above the earth and stand so lovely, tall and thin,
April’s rains come pounding down, stripping petals down to skin.The sunflower casts its shadows long in the August summer sun.
The others fade as they reach and strain in the darkness overcome.The stalk grows thick and strong above weak and sickly buds,
until the chill of fall’s strong winds leave them rotting in the mud.The honey suckles grow so supple
sweetly sprouting on the vine.
Their essence simply fragrant,
and their flavor so sublime.But this temporary jewel hangs so heavy overripe.
Its syrup grows so saccharine, as its blossoms fall to blight.In time the autumn comes to put an end to the others’ days.
They thrive within their season until their natural beauty fades.But all in all. beyond the fall, there’s one final season left to tend.
The frosty barren winter and its terrors, she transcends.The razor thorns of the winter’s rose protect her lovely stem.
It’s meager budding shape looked-over for more-contemporary trends.
Her blossoms went unnoticed by those busy courtesans.
While the others were all blooming,
grooming, and their petals shed,
their patrons had abandoned them,
dried up and left for dead.Leaving one lonesome shock of color
in that frozen garden glen.
For all of those the winter’s rose outlasts them in the end.by D. Ryan Lafferty
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Puppeteering
Tiny puppet masters prop themselves up
just above the other toys,
the playthings elite.For they are special, certainly better than the rest.
Superior grins stretch from ear to stenciled ear,
adorning hollow faces.They rise, then bend and dip in such lifelike motion.
Well-worn joints creak and moan as they bow, then rise again.
Believing, without question, that they are the ones pulling the strings.by D. Ryan Lafferty
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Medusa
I exhale in terror. Or is it simply exhaustion?
I huff and wheeze a thin cloud of fog to rub away
yet another smudge on Athena’s prized shield.
I feel anything, but heroic, hypnotized by the glare.
Breathtakingly beautiful. A pun, as if anyone had time for stale humor.I choke on my own dry throat as the soft sounds of serpents intensify,
sibilant and seductively, they writhe.Holding fast, the tension builds.
My mind rehearsing, how was it again…
thrust and parry, stick and move,
who am I kidding?
In my modern life I am no warrior,
but time tests us all.In this reflection left is right; it’s disorienting.
I can never remember. So much like cutting my own hair in the bathroom mirror.
I always get the movement wrong at first, then second,
and then finally a mediocre job at best.In her chamber I am surrounded by history,
ancestors, well, relics really.A still audience that withholds its applause in silence.
Are they rooting for me? I cannot tell.
I feel like they would, but who knows?
Maybe they want me to fail too.
Unseeing witnesses; their marble eyes look through me
as if time itself were stealing their attention away
like a bored date at a drive in movie.I feel submerged. Like all tombs,
it’s a cavern of earth filled with the damned.
Trampled by surly steps under the braggartly feet of the living.Stone monuments deservedly worn, looking down their chipped noses at me;
jealously blind to those still breathing in the world.
So many limestone slabs, like cicada shells clinging to the verge.
Hollow, crumbling remnants of a noisy, ugly world.
Of the years and seasons, and the lovers long departed.
Testaments to fabled monsters that only a glimpse within a gilded shield reveals.We tell ourselves that yesterday’s villains could never live in our antiseptic age.
That time has delivered us from such evil.
Here we are perversely transposed,
the reverse of what we see.This gorgonic madame is far closer than she appears.
by D. Ryan Lafferty
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All That We Will Leave
Be mindful of the things you do, be careful what you say.
Life is meant to be enjoyed and age the price we pay.Imagine it all ended; in fact one day it will.
Would the things that keep you up at night even matter still?The fire of time is greedy, consuming all it sees…
It gobbles up your hopes and plans then burns away your dreams.A warning now for all to hear, a sign for all to see…
The things we do and say today are all that we will leave.by D. Ryan Lafferty
Literary Crumbs: Poems & Short Stories to Savor by D. Ryan Lafferty 