Though the Gods
Death and sensual solitude, quiet and vast blue sky
for dumb show after comedic dumb show, my father
is in the other room, shuffling crinkly White Sands photos.
He has been dead. The heavens… a chorus of witnesses.
Though the gods huddle and point and chuckle-head
invade dreams, fly balletic from cloud to fucking cloud,
not one attends to my prayers, not Gaelic or Mongol,
no god in my service. My father is no more god
than any windblown ashes… scattered off the Farallons
or in a Snowy Range meadow… an unknowable ghost.
Poetry collection published 2021
Poem used with the permission of the author
Red Shuttleworth was a writer for decades… poetry and drama and some fiction. He is currently the oldest licensed professional boxer… so far as we can reckon. When he gets his first pro bout, Red will break the record for Oldest Active Professional Boxer. His latest collection of poems, Hardly Alone, was published a number of weeks ago by Wayne State College Press in Nebraska.
As a former writer, Red continues to write daily… because it is a compulsion. There is rumor that he will be in Tonopah in October 2022 with some actors to hold a cold reading of the entire Americana West: A Century of Plays.
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