By: Cedric McClester,

How many times
Must it be repeated
Before the gun lobby
Is finally defeated
This sickness we have
Seems to be deep seated
If there’s a time table
Then we need to meet it

How many times
Must condolences
Be the only thing
That there is
Before we ask ourselves
What gives
Or it touches us
Where each of us lives

How many times
Must the same old excuses
Be the refrain
From our elected useless
In spite of the evidence
Of countless abuses
It’s insanity
One probably deduces

How many times
Must it be tolerated
Though most of us say
How much we hate it
How long will the gun advocates
Debate it
With arguments that
Have already been stated



















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.

Every morning
I wake up to
a different world.
Sixty-three years
and each day
a new beginning.
Somehow it
never gets old.
   ~mce

warmth in the evening when my mind wanders
a stuttering beat to which my feet cannot dance
the sound of a sigh on the wind
and the sweet scent of salt water as i walk to back home

a fire roaring on the hearth
and the soft touch of lips on my forehead
the heavy scent of coffee on sunday morning
turning around the car at the rumbling of my stomach

the sharp taste of blood in my mouth
the fiery rush of it under my fingers
the weakening flutter of you heart
your life in my hands

a chroí
my heart
beating far too fast
as i think back on the things
i took for granted

Underneath the ceiling of stars,
Your finger traced constellations
That told legends about Gods.
We'd settle on the swing set
I spent my childhood on
And smoke cigarettes
Talking about how we felt so old
All the while still feeling so young.
And there were moments
When I'd look at you
And marvel at your presence,
Just thanking the universe
For being privileged to love you.

My hands are afraid of being held
Though they are cold
And slightly frostbitten
They'd rather be alone

Achingly
The tips of my indigo fingers
Yern for your return,
For the stregnth of your palms
But my hands

My hands are afraid
Of your third degree
They would rather be
Alone

They say, love is beautiful, enjoy the ride.
Well my ride is bringing me up and down,
And I feel so sick but I don't want to get off.
I don't want to leave.
I hope that the ride will get better,
But the lows are getting lower,
And the tunnels are getting darker.
And I'm holding on so tight that my knuckles are white.
I'm scared that if I let go, I will fall, and I will break.
The ride swipes the ground from under my feet,
And turns my world around and I'm lost in the mix.
What was once butterflies in my stomach,
Is now anxiety in my chest.
And as much as I want to stay on the ride,
As much as I hope that the ride will get better,
I know that it's time for me to get off.