Biography of Sean McDowell
the boy and the sling without the faith,
giant charging. My words drop
like stones from the loose strap,
and those who once lined
the camp behind me lower their heads
and turn away. In this stasis,
blame them. They turn, as I have before—
in the Jordan, watching the dove descend,
only to flinch
in the moment of destiny—
Sean McDowell Poems
To Have Loved And Lost
A boy a girl a garden: it always begins something like this. You awaken to find rock still pliant from the Creator's hand, the stars burning free in the twilight
We put our weapons in the trunk–– a wood staff, two metal bats, & a BB-gun shaped like a Luger–– & set out for Lincoln Park in Trevor's '94 Firebird.
You had crouched to trace out a footprint in compact ice with fingertips too frozen to feel, glancing up at me and saying confidently, 'Two of them, probably infantry, traveling light, heading east
Photocopying My Driver's License
I set the brightness to one bar and see in the face that slides onto the paper tray the moment before Hiroshima flickered––the eyes narrowing, diminishing to pupils
The Tower Of Babel
i am one of the few who was left behind to lay his head in these forsaken lands. one of the few who still awakens each day to watch the half-completed structure
When I Woke Today, I Shook Eden From My ...
When I woke today, I shook Eden from my head, and in its place I found a story I'd heard as a child: of a man long ago who lost everything,
Ye Shall Be As Gods
My mother stands, her back to me, watching the wind stir her garden. Years ago, I would have said that she saw traces of God, her thought being that He left Eden to stroll in her creation.
I would have followed his arc through the heavens, shrugged off the warnings of my father and crossed into the vastness of the world, but I would have left him
Sound & Fury
––hands folded behind my head, awake at 2 am on an old mattress that will retain my form long after I rise. I watch rain stagger down my window,
Should you chase the unwritten pages, the spaces left beyond the lines where words could no longer sustain thought, you will find me.
Should you chase the unwritten pages,
the spaces left beyond
the lines where words could no longer sustain thought,
you will find me.
And it has long seemed to me that there must be
or perhaps crucially right,
with a world in which we can map every continent
but not the soul,