Time whispered when he 
had sight, small wonders enhanced;
songs, stories, a string 
of beads some islander made
in Equatorial days.

Leaves, loaves, dense salads,
oven roasts’ great sizzling songs,
a most yieldless time
of games, ghosts, and gobs of things,
creatures early days invoke.

Book sentences brought
The Green Pea Pirates starring
good old Cappy Ricks,
hard eye on the page, his tongue 
having cut his voice in half,

caesura’s beer-bite
was a swig and chunk of cheese,
turning words like roasts 
he baked for me succulent, 
so savory, wordless now.

Now! Now! How Time strikes!
Storms, lightning, days are crunching,
night’s no pail of stars
flung as sand on darker skies.
His eyes are closed, and his mouth.

From his loins I sprang 
wanting to be, from his arms
self-torn at some piece
of boyhood, I remember 
earless, wordless, the touches 

when I, lovely young,
began woeful wandering,
saw these wayward roads
where now I roam forever    
in the darkness of his eyes.

Bio: Thomas F. Sheehan