Turn To Stone

Standing quietly, watching over the hill filled with monuments to the dead.
Never pausing to rest.
Never seeking shelter from the rain or cold.
Never hiding his eyes from the pain.
Never turning away from the awful grace of God, the savageness of man, the hate we feel for another.
He waits for us to see, he waits for us all to be - the ones who will hold out their hands, in that single act of kindness that can transform the fury, that will transform the suspicion, that will carry us, one and all, to the promised land.
This land of ours, this land of milk and honey, of mercy and love, of forgiveness.
Will we shelter them?
Will we feed them, educate them, listen...when they speak, hear... what they say?
Or will we turn away, turn to stone, and stand on the hill - filled with monuments to the dead?

Tony Whitford
  6/28/2015

The Water Never Lasts

 

Few have left the battle
None have ever won
Rusting swords still rattle
Bring you bullets, join the fun

Lawyers, blood, and money

Fill this paper lovers dreams

Swim through mud to find them
In a dying magazine

On a hill far away

From a room yesterday
Out of space
Out of time
Out of money
Out of mind

Be the veil, be the bride

With a word we divide
Out of money
Out of time
We’re out of space
Never mind

Someone bring the wine this time

The water never last
Wrapped in secret smoke we climb
The mountains of the past

Mother television can you

Tell me what to know
Tape my eyes wide open
I don’t want to miss the show

Take my hand and love me

Can you tell me where to go
I’m afraid I’m ordinary
Temporary, I don’t know

 

Tony Whitford © 5/20/2015

Giants On Parade

When we were young

We watched the palace fall out of the sky

We waited for the dragon

Dripping love to make us high

We ran with gods and drank their wine

We ate the dreams of men

We called upon the hearts of Troy

And we shouted in the wind



In time we learned to twist the vine

Escape through smoke and shield

We slept beneath the clouds of gloom

And turned the broken wheels

The steel we wore spoke to our hearts

We drank the blood of youth

We buried blades in waterfalls

And lied to find the truth



We drove our shining time machines

And flew the dragons dry

We carried love across the sea

And vanished from the sky

The bridges burned in purple smoke

Our horses sawed their reigns

We charged across the fields of hope

And cursed the yellow stain



Our cries of "Death to boring lives"

Rang through our fierce brigade

Our hearts were filled with martyrdom

Our hands affixed to blades

The seeds were sewn, the minds were blown

The Piper dearly paid

The whirlwinds dusting kingdom come

Were giants on parade



The fires of torn and tearing down

Now smolder in the rain

And Silence fills the empty halls

Where music filled the stage

Wild poppies rustle in the wind

Where skin and bone provide

The strength to hold the crumbling walls

The years, the crushing tide



 By Tony Whitford
March 23, 2012

Atlantis Sleeps

Atlantis sleeps
Cold and deep
The silent and blue
She is a victim of the shifting earth
The rising tides
The agents of destruction
Ringing bells of sin

Above her on a sea of concrete
Extraordinary beings swim the reefs of steel
Heads bowed to the gods of circuit and screen
In the distance the sound of a horse
Breathing the thin dark air
Plumes of mist rise from its nostrils
Golgotha his name, black as night, strong of heart

His rider waits
Standing beside his withered shanks, tattered cloth
Hair and blood, beard and bone
He watches the waves
Waiting
Watching from the dark shore
An agent of destruction
Patient behind the dunes
Listening for the bells

The water rises
The horse sidles, lifting his head, ears scissoring
His rider mounts, tack creaking
Blade gleaming
Salt mist in their eyes
Silence now
Not even a dog
The bells begin

Listening

Listening

 

I think I have forgotten

To talk to him

I haven’t heard him speak in so long

Maybe I lost the will

The ability to hear

I used to talk to him

When I was young

And missing him

Words beneath my heart

Hidden from the voice

A language

Only the lost can hear

I heard him call my name

 

I think I have forgotten

How—can that be true

Talk to me now

I promise

I will listen

I am listening

What is there left to say

What did you forget to tell me

I have time

You can have all you need

I have not forgotten you

 

 

Tony whitford   9/18/2014

  

The Words Of Our Fathers

 

 

What will become of

The words of our fathers

Speaking

Through atmospheres of impatience

Through lives unattended

Or unexplored

 

What will become of

The message there repeated

Falling

Through attitudes too sure

Through expectations unmet

Through hands held together

In unexplained loss

And love

 

What will become of

The hope in the whisper

Rocking

In a quiet room

Soft breath on his cheek

The gentle beat of a heart against his

Looking into a future

Uncertain

Unprepared

But willing to believe

 

What will become of

The child of the father

Running

From the words they will not hear

Crashing against the hope

Of the other

The quiet room forgotten

The meaning somehow lost

The words that held no cost

 

 

Tony Whitford   7/15/2014

 

 

 

Memento

 

She gazes in the mirror

As the memory of a younger face begins to fade

A shaking hand reaches up to wipe away the steam

To wipe away the dream

And there in the glass

The past falters to a red beginning

To a distant horizon

Where a man stands shaving

His neck stretched upward

His chin pointing to the mirror

A razor in his hand

Triumph over the weak in his countenance

A bottle of Jim Beam on faded Formica

To steady the nerves of a man's last day

The burning brings courage, chasing the fear

Liquid fire drips through her chest

The devils tears

In another room she hears her mother

Sobs of regret behind broken doors

Holes in walls

Stains on floors

Her fallen angel

The angel that could not fly

Looking through this window into the infinite

Looking back with no fear of the instrument she has become

She remembers the sound of the gun

Echoing in the small bathroom

And the spray of a man's last day

Covering the walls in pathetic loss

Living fluid beating through the heart of a monster

Now nothing more than paint

The smell of the shaving cream

She opens the drawer of the vanity

And gazes at the razor

Yellowed ivory, stained with one scarlet drop

Never to be wiped away

One raised chin

One shaking hand

One memento of him

 

A.W. Whitford

11/10/2013