Thomas R. Keith Poetry
Verse both sacred and secular.
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Joseph
I will teach him my trade Under my hawk’s eye he will learn to dress and chisel stone Dust will grit between his teeth | gray his hair before its time Like his father he will work gravestones Greek and Jewish dead all alike Sometimes as we sweat we will speak of the Last Day…
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Judas Iscariot
found his thirty pieces of silver so tarnished he could not wipe them clean. It was as if they had been dipped in a dish of salt- sweat and vinegar and curdled blood. He worked with a cloth and got nowhere. He worked with his fingernails and they burned. He worked so hard scrubbing that…
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Sea Pen
This poem was not written with a sea pen which is a shame No doubt it would flow more freely needing no meter except the ocean currents Held to the seabed by thin feet it would eat floating words and grow long long as a man’s forearm All other poems it would call bleached coral…
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In Hell
there are hollyhocks and gardenias and fences white and gently weathered concealing neighbors who whisper about your sagging jowls and the growing mole on your neck occasionally they knock steaming dishes of zucchini casserole in hand and compliment you on your bravery in the face of trial once the door shuts they go right back…
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Epitaph for a Greyhound
Instead of the end I will remember the sleek arc of your body spanning space like a barrel vault the neat join of tenon and mortise where legs met flanks the quick spurts of motion toward some prize known only to you the wet stare of faith you bestowed when called to heel Instead of…
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Lunar New Year
Moon, you have grown heavy with winter ice. We see you only through a sheen of frost. And your path across the night is a sluggard’s. How long until spring’s axehead breaks you free to sail again untrammeled the blue- black deeps?
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Guest
For hours the rain has been drumming and drumming on my welcome mat. If I could I’d gladly invite it in. For more than any woman or man it is welcome.
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Paris, Prince of Troy
You may have Achilles whose mouth frothed more than the river he fought. You are welcome to Ajax with his towering shield and skull full of rocks. I even grant you Hector who in the name of Troy left his son fatherless. Only leave me Paris – effete, peak-capped bowman Paris – who threw away…
Thomas R. Keith Poetry 