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                                                            The Literary Review
                                                                      Issue 8

Page 9

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Steady Stare

A horse stands
and stares, roan
blurred in pasture
browns and green.
Still and stoic,
uncombed and swayback,
a statue posed
on untrimmed hooves.
Ears flick at my
staccato stutters
from internal combustion
mower engine,
stubborn and loud,
in a hurry to clip
and shear next door
to his silent stare.
until he slowly
When he swivels
his head, haunch and hips
follow, steady
measured steps through
tall grass, his own
pace repeated each day.

Richard Dinges, Jr.__



Moon grins upon
its own white
fragmented by
pond’s dappled face.
Gunshots boom from
beyond earth’s dark
shoulder, I believe
from a gun club
miles away, beside
city’s faint electric
glow. I hide in
my own shadows,
hold my silence
and peace in idle
reverie, while
the city slowly
grows, relentlessly.

Richard Dinges, Jr.__


Another haunts
my bed, not sheets
or mattress that
change over time,
where I lie at night,
settle into a dark
cavern, enveloped
in warmth, shadows
emerge, flicker
and pass, until
I see through other
eyes, those I might
have been, will yet
be, or those that
taunt, the never
was I become
each night, enter
my own ghost,
close my eyes
to what I am.

  Richard Dinges, Jr.__


Faces are malleable,
compared to dried paint.
The length of words
measure staccato
chants. Years, names,
and styles, anecdotes
of ancient lies
half-buried in truth,
phrases keep crowds
from pooling. A steady
hum streams through
muted light and air with
all artistic passion
conditioned away.

  Richard Dinges, Jr.__


Beneath all this
bluster and thin
skin, I am pale.
Most of me hides
within an artificial
shadow cast by
my ego. At night,
I burrow into
dark dreams with
laser beams that
bore into my core,
bare myself to
that other side,
where all lies
revealed behind
mysterious shrouds
that melt away, shed
in sun’s first rays.

  Richard Dinges, Jr.__



A camera attached
to a narrow trunk
captured no photos,
a grove silent
while I slept.
No wild life passed,
a blank expanse
buried under gray
snow rotted by
wind that shifts clouds,
alternates shadows
and white that burns
holes in eyes.
An absence of images
captures no life
in winter's depths.

  Richard Dinges, Jr.__