On the themes of
HOW WE ARE MOLDED
Neither words
nor brush stroke
can capture it;
it’s in the throat,
a dry cough
Some call it divorce
or being motherless;
maybe a soldier
with legs blown off
somewhere
in Afghanistan
Others tell me
it’s what occurs
after sin
or what clay men suffer
before they’re molded
TESS DIED
There is a tiny door
of light by the fence
between the pickets
and the posts
near where Tess died
Mind you,
this was not
a sudden event;
it took a lifetime
to evolve
Death does not
have dimensions,
yet, we struggle
to invent words
to measure it
Author Biography
Tim J Brennan writes from southeastern MN. His poems can be found in The Original VanGogh’s Ear, Talking Stick, and Whispering Shade. His one-act plays have been produced widely, including Chicago, San Diego, Bethesda, and other nice places.