Beard, by Charles Southerland
I've had the ancient urge to find my place
upon the man, my raison d'être,
to grow and live, give cover to his face,
a grizzled look, proclaim his wisdom there.
He's like the rest, at first, resists my charge,
thinks cutting is the answer to his prayers.
But one year later, seeking to enlarge
his image, bonafides, these white hairs
have redefined his staid terrain with chance,
desire, and having told his friends the truth,
that stroking me reminds him of the dance
of love, of course, of loss. Those thoughts, uncouth.
If nothing else, a panacea found
when lack is something to him tightly bound.
Charles (Charlie) Southerland: "I live in Arkansas on my farm where I keep watch over lots of critters and write poetry. I'm published in a few good journals like: Measure, The Road Not Taken, First Things, Blue Unicorn, The Amsterdam Quarterly, The Lyric, and others. I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize a few years ago, and I was a finalist for a recent Nemerov Award. I am primarily a Formalist."
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