The Rocker

by Michael O'Connor

Dark oaken rails and runners
Faded out with wear,
On the bottom of his old
Wooden rocking chair.
Nestled in the corner
basking by the light,
Casting mid winter shadows
On a cold November night.
It’s finish chipped and tattered
where spindles fail to glow,
But it’s in a fade of outer
Beauty that wisdom often shows.
Every scratch and scar displayed
On its aged brittle frame,
While then a painful cut in time
Becomes a memory of the same.
Despite the seven years or more
The rocker morning rife,
I feel that I may know him now
Ever more so than in life.

Wicked Funeral

by Michael O'Connor

Pale, quiet lines assemble
In muffled morning air,
In collection to celebrate
Woeful loss and despair.
Somber men seek solace
From a solitary fear,
That but from heaven’s grace
Tis they that will lie there.
“Wicked, wicked death, be gone.
You’re not welcome here!”
But it sits like a cool shadow
In a lonely corner chair,
Ignoring the pleas of mourners,
Mourners everywhere.