Where in the World is Rhett Butler?

by SL Ruth

I was married to a youth
I was married to an older man,
I was in love twice,
but not with them.

I had some good friends
who held my hand and heart,
and saved me from myself
when my choices were not smart.

A few men have loved me
I looked on them as sweet
it'd be a nice surprise
to find a two-way street.

"Been married to a youth,
been married to an old man,"
Rhett declared to Scarlett
"You need kissing, my dear...

and by someone who knows how."
So, where in the world is Rhett Butler?
He may have missed his cue,
sure hope he wasn't one of those

I identified a roue,
only roguishly disguised
to my weary blinded eyes
from looking too hard for love.

To Be a Shedding Tree

by SL Ruth

Trees bare their souls in season
shed the litotes of their leaves
while standing firmly rooted
against the world,
as limbs, branches, and tiny twigs
feather into the unknown.
One knows where a tree stands.

Often, I've wished to silently
slip inside your mind or heart
to feel where you are rooted
how you stand within the world,
to see as you do
feel what you feel.
My miserable attempts have failed.

If time provided a season
when all the facade was shed
when we could face one another,
as bare as winter trees
exposed, to see, to touch
our hands could trace life-veins
feeling through the limbs, branches and twigs
to the feathered feelings of our souls.
We could then embrace the unknown
rooted together
and love,
or sigh,
like a wind whispered,
through a heavy growth of leaves,
I understand,
and walk away.

Late Autumn Morn

by SL Ruth

Great cottonwoods, steadfast
In autumn's transcendent wind, yield
Summer's crop resplendent
Painted by Master Hand.

Morning's crisp yet hazy glimmer
Sends cotton fairy-spores snowing
A single leaf fares daintily, descending,
Shimmering golden bright
Upon a gust, commencing
One last wild free flight.

Ruffled stacks of color
Gathered against the garden gate,
Ruby red veined with yellow, make
Autumn's harvest in final slendor,an
Intrinsic, lovely sight.

Justice

by SL Ruth
My Dad's death began last February
in reverse-action sequence;
no witnesses were called,
no expert stepped forth to exonerate,
no miracles, no bribery, no parole,
no mercy: simply
a youthful doctor, acting as bailiff,
who read the verdict,
pronounced the sentence.
There would be no appeal.
No manipulating the system,
only a short term wait on death row
while his body, strong and athletic,
until he heard the news, was poisoned with chemicals;
not in lethal injection, nor hiss of gas,
but in tiny increments, was he dosed to death.

Fallen locks of his magnificent, white, thick, silken hair,
lay like silver threads on his navy windbreaker
and as mementoes on the back of his vacated easy chair;
slender strands we find clinging on things still living,
like the pink azalea blossoms by the front porch,
I was startled to find one there
from the day I shook his jacket;
and on the raised fur of his new house slippers
where arch had not time to compress,
but worse, across my mother's open palm.
My Dad died in December,
as he had lived, in quiet dignity,
surrounded by his sweetheart and children,
as strong, and true, and responsible
in death as he was in life:
an example for good.

Now comes forth witnesses,
with tear-stained faces and wet handkerchiefs
to bear testimony of him,
to caress his lifeless brow,
and pat the shoulder of his best brown suit;
Would their testimony had been as stong in February
before the Judgment sentenced him,
if not to save,
at least, he could have known
that we wanted a good fight for justice.

shouted consumerism

by SL Ruth

a sonnet for ee cummings

on winged nikes a latex message flies swift
rebounding on limited edition airjordans
boldly dancing past sportswannabes miffed
while thousands of ayes succomb to comeon
calvin's not calvinistic neverthelessshout
rolexed rhetoric politically correct
guess? a redtriangled gap cashed out
hallmarked on beamers or cherokees text
hype through sex transformed into gold
as nottobeoneupped yuppies race for control
and cindy or claudia or carol's sold souls
prettily echo the trendy extols
he with the most wins the first prize
to hell with competitors and all the unwise

Shirts

by SL Ruth

Mom sent over some of my dad's shirts
Since he is dead
I was grateful to get them.

I smell the starched collars worn to frayed edge
and look at them draped limp on wire hangers.

I touch where he touched, on the rough work weaves,
and smooth the cotton of his dress shirt,
I feel what he felt
against his skin.

I could never fill those shirts,
I've got shirts of my own to fill now he's gone.

His shirts, long-sleeved in time
softened neutrals,
and wide shining ties striped to match

hang above his resoled shoes free of dust,
they belonged to my Dad.
Neither one of us needs them now,
So why do I keep them?

I caress the blue one closest to me
And sniff once more a trace of his cologne
then I shut the closet door
and again, I wonder why?