Sy Roth comes riding in and then canters out. Oftentimes, the head is bowed by reality; other times, he is proud to have said something noteworthy. Retired after forty-two years as teacher/school administrator, he now resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets. This has led him to find words for solace. He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. His works have been published in many online publications including BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, The Weekender, The Squawk Back, Dead Snakes, Downer Magazine, and Every Day Poems. One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle. Also selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway, September 2012. His work was also read at Palimpsest Poetry Festival in December 2012.
A Game of Marbles
blue agate adrift
flicked by an errant thumb
no sticking it to the other;
glumly twirls aimlessly in the circle.
the boys laugh,
consumers rather than builders
teeter-tottering in a sea of puerile inanities.
they do not perceive the two--
the guardians secreted among them--
builders with trowels in one hand,
weapons in the other
defending their creations.
fail to recognize that the world began
in a big-bang building of words
clapped together like chalk erasers--
those risking all for books
housing spun gold with words
and keeping possible truths buried within them
safe from the funeral pyre.
in a marbleized world,
dropsies and bombsies--
their great risk,
all the marbles--
the dragonflies, the steelies and the cats eyes.
The kitchen table,
Its smooth laminated countertops,
even floors, if that stoked her need,
became her pecking ground.
Coops of memory awash in scarcity.
No scraping talons clawing at the ground,
no head bobbing forward and back,
only that extended pointer finger
like a frog’s tongue darting out snaring its prey.
Every scrap had to be pecked.
Nothing to be left behind,
Nothing wiped from the table tops into waiting receptacles.
Zeroed in on the ort,
she attached it to her tongue-moistened fingertip,
then it went, deposited gingerly,
eyes alight with memory, into the mouth.
There are children starving in Europe
she would remind us.
We marveled at the stabbing finger each time,
the ingestion of the bits and pieces that we cavalierly
dropped and wiped without conscience from our lips.
She eyed each microscopic piece with sadness as she pecked,
memories revived with each bit,
clucking mightily at the waste.