“Leave The Driving To Us” not for publication without permission of The Write Page, Inc.

“Towers of Grace” not for publication without permission of The Write Page, Inc.      

                       

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Leave The Driving To Us
By Rafael Vasquez

            In Texas, Bluebirds carry you straight to hell -- not Trailways or Greyhound but dusty old blue and white buses that clatter along dry, mesquite-lined backroads, shotgun-toting guards front and back.  I peer out through steel slats and wire mesh.

Reservations on a prison bus are a simple matter.  Drink.  Drive.  Run a stop sign.  

On one hundred five degree road, my Bluebird bounces into a fenced compound topped with razorwire like I haven’t seen since Beirut.  From a metal Quonset hut, six, fat, officers in two-tone grey uniforms lumber out.  Surround the bus.  Two others approach, pulled by slobbering, ground-skimming bloodhounds.  One huge rotweiler sets its sights on me as I slink along in handcuffs and biting ankle chains. 

            They prod me toward a building, orange peeling paint, green moldy water trickling down cracked mortar.  Gothic-looking.  Beneath my feet, freedom rots in the Transylvanian soil.  Beside the door, a handlettered, coardboard sign is taped to the brick:  Through me you pass into the City of Woe.  Through me you pass into eternal pain.  All hope abandon, ye who enter here.

            Not the vacation I’d planned, but travel agency tickets were quick and easy – continue to drink.  Continue to drive….

***

 

 

Towers of Grace
By Rafael Vasquez

 

Upon New England shores
in search across the watery depth
from towers strong, came beckoning lights,
calling home the wayward seafarer
through wind, rain, hail and violent sky. 

Come to me, my sons of the land
and sailor’s tradition.  Come.
Seek ye these majestic towers.
Steer assured, for the stars are cloaked
and compasses locked.
But lo, no more.

For tradition has slipped and centuries passed.
Gone are the nights of darkness broken;
Did you see the tower leaning?
Did you hear the steeple crack?
--The bells are quiet now.

The coals for coffee long since cooled.
But listen ye, into the night
where surf smashes the reef.
Hear the ghostcalls as they creep upon the cliffs. 
Cries.  Then screams and snapping  wood.
No orders to abandon from captains of honor. 

Nay, said the Sailors of Seas of Seven,
then steer assured, for the stars were cloaked
and compasses locked.
But no, no more.

The bells are quiet now.
--And I did see the tower leaning.
--And I did hear the steeple crack.
Then came down the majestic towers…
Those towers of grace
bringing home no more, the wayward seafarer
upon New England shores.

But listen ye into the night
Where surf smashes the reef
and hear the ghostcalls of centuries passed,
of those still calling to be brought home.
Rebuild the towers…Ignite the lights…
Cease the cries, the screams and gnashing of teeth,
through rain, through hail and violent sky.
Ring the bells, and silence the cliffs,
forever calling