The Empty Page —poetry by Raymond Thomas

The Empty Page

The empty page is where I am.
Meet me at the empty page – There
We will enjoy all the wanton fantasy
Lazy minds can create.
There will be no sweat. Just stare,
Zen-like at the page with no nuance, free of meaning.
Meet me at the empty page.
Because my soul is empty- or more likely emptied.
Imagine the page filled with words
Full of explicit meaning…
Carrying a story for the ages. Or
Better yet, imagine a page that
Like my mind, is emptied of meaning.
I stare. But I intended. I had a story to tell.
So I intended. Made notes even.
Intended but emptied --- just happened.
Meet me at the empty page.
And if you are my friend, admire it.
It is my achievement. This emptied page.
Takes all my strength to sit and stare…
Feel blanked out story…
Redacted for my protection. The story is still there
Erase the redactions...expose my soul.
But then let me edit and create the final redaction—

-with more words than the page can hold.


___
Raymond Thomas was born in Guyana. He received his PhD in Chemistry at Texas A&M and now works in industry. He resides in Lockport, NY where he enjoys the four seasons, writes short stories and poetry.

Gratitude in the Alley | by Raymond Thomas

The swish of her hips in anger

Becomes a prelude to seduction

Her furtive stride across the alley

Pulls her clothes tighter around her body

Which then flows back into momentary relaxation

Playing hide and seek with her privacy

She is beautiful in that disreputable way

Urgently whispering as she tugs my hand

Don’t want the church ladies to know

We closed the bar on Sunday morn

She is the incarnation of the women

Love songs warn against

And in that moment, I love her  

Love her all that morning

Until she leaves me, for church

Lord, I do not believe

But I do thank you

for this morning in the alley

Where sin is beauty

And mixed with love and laughter

___

Raymond Thomas was born in Guyana. He received his PhD in Chemistry at Texas A&M and now works in industry. He resides in Lockport, NY where he enjoys the four seasons, writes short stories and poetry. 

Cannon Fodder— a poem by Raymond Thomas

Nineteen guys died twice

          The second time around

          As practiced whores in death

          We saw them go down in red flames

          And thousands died with them

          We know the nineteen names

          And the counted thousands all have names

          The first time around

          The nineteen virgin deaths did not disturb us

          Perhaps they went down one by one

          More likely nameless thousands fell with them,

And perish daily, uncounted

          The walking dead, waiting to die again

          Beyond rescue them or us

          They cannon fodder in a field of fire

          Us the sickly sweet smell of death twice around

          To die first for hate or hurt

          And then again in the rocket’s red glare

          To be meticulously counted

And gloriously mourned

Yeah, nineteen guys died twice.

At least! We saw it only once




___
Raymond Thomas was born in Guyana. He received his PhD in Chemistry at Texas A&M and now works in industry. He resides in Lockport, NY where he enjoys the four seasons, writes short stories, and poetry.