I wonder now
Did Job's wife speak
The Devil's words,
"Curse God and die"?

Was Job's test the culmination,
The diabolical, canny ending,
The checkmate of temptation
To end the human nation?

"Curse God and Die."
These words give thinkers chills.
The brutal question, "Why?"
Faith-stifling word that kills.

Job's friends, his wife, his circumstance,
Combined his wounds to salt;
In misery, he sought the Lord, to stand,
And prove his misery was not his fault.

Job knelt before the Lord at last,
In yielding he found life;
For him, the test was passed;
But what about Job's wife?

Is the death of hope
The dying sigh Of freedom
Dying weekends
Expire in twilight
No one to speak My name to say
Everything will be
Okay.

Watched the Lord come to the garden.
Heard the Voice call softly, “Adam.”
In anticipation, licked his lips,
Felt shivers in his snake-ish hips.

Still no movement from the bushes;
Human forms still held their breath;
Chortling serpent, breathless, waited
In the garden where came death.

I was on a train from
Paris to Amsterdam
and with an empty page
a sad smile and a pen
she was looking out
the window across
the apple green fields and
into the valleys of cobbled
villages and ****** churches
and as the dead air of Paris
was leaving my mind
I began to read the reflection
of questions in her eyes
I wanted to tell her what
she already knew
that the answers are in
the rhythm of the rails
and to only underline
the words that matter ...
Clay.M

Alone, I sit looking to the west.
Sunday is quickly going down
My lover, two states away, sees light,
But our Sunday sun is sinking now.

I remember the sadness of Sundays gone,
Those weekend breaks could not last long
Dreaded the call to bed and sleep,
Wished a few more hours my own to keep.

Today's sky was harsh and clear, and now the sun
Hangs low and lower on the line
Above the trees and houses, nearly gone;
My loneliness is for her, and so I pine.

A dog might put its head between its paws
Look forlorn, old, thoroughly dejected,
But I must do my chores and never pause
Long enough to feel I am neglected.

Older men and older women find life
Must leave them before long,
So when the days turn weeks, the strife
Of loneliness and worry comes along.

Old Frost said well that nothing gold can stay,
That morning gold must quickly fade away,
And so it is I linger on the sun's chill light
Before I totter off to hide from coming night.

In a house awaiting death,
No Monday coming,
No thing to do but wait,
No sudden joys anticipate,
No early chores to distract,
Just a careful sitting back,
In breathless Sunday slack.