Behind Every Cloud

After three cups of coffee I’m fully anxious.

The wind thrashes the limbs of the trees,
chases leaves down the wet street.

Winter.

The cats go in and out, and in again.

I force a smile.

The silver lining and all that.

Outside it’s so gray it hurts the eyes.

---

For dVerse. Bjorn has us visiting the idea of silence in poetry. I tend to use sparse, trimmed-down lines–this (I think) naturally lends itself to silent space. My first draft of this poem was a 6-line lyric, but to heighten the feel of unsettled quiet that I was striving for, I broke each short sentence into its own line.

Wind

   He makes the wind His messengers . . .

Storms from the west.
The remains of many
acquiring lives splintered,
scattered about as if
a spoiled child in foul mood
rampaged the block, bent on
destroying all to prove his will.

The news cameras scan the random
heaps: microwaves, photographs,
torn fabric of what might be
curtains or a prom dress
—a memory formerly
stowed away in the spare closet
now revealed for all to see—

mingled with things
more basic to survival:
the contents of a freezer;
bits of wood and drywall
that only minutes ago was shelter.

The reporter, with requisite empathy,
interviews swollen-eyed residents
who can only mention
some divine power at work.
How silly to see willful intent,
ascribing to some irate or fickle god
what is, after all, just wind.

Cold Morning

When you turned away
your breathmist hung in the air–
a fading goodbye.

Spent

i spent
some time today
        thinking about the past
        soft touches we shared in the night
alone

ELEGY

as long
as there is one
left to tell your story
we haven’t lost you completely,
not yet.

Apart

There is

nothing to say

when we are together.

If I could only just see you,

my love.

We haven’t spoken in years.

We haven’t spoken in years.

And the last time I saw you
at the yard sale, as you walked
among the collapsible tables

fingering the unwanted odds and ends
of someone else’s life, I couldn’t bring
myself to meet your searching eyes.

Having nothing to add
to what was said before,
I hid myself around the corner until

you finally picked up two crystal wine glasses,
a nickel apiece, and you never guessed
that I was there, watching, remembering.

Azaleas

This spring the azaleas
bloomed early, earlier
than they did last year.

I put them
in a plastic cup,
leaning it against the stone.

I remember how fresh
they used to look when gathered
in your hands;

and how I hoped
you would be able to see them
one last time. 

Small Talk

I should be the one
to tell you about moonlight
falling on the grave
where you lay in the darkness,
and the winter wind blowing.

Turning Back the Clocks

I look through the crystal face,
watch the hands circle
around, hands turning,

not creating time but only
simulating the irreversible movement
of past into future, quickly

past the present. I can, surely, grip
the stem between finger and thumb
and turn the ticking sticks

backward, 5-4-3-2-1, but nothing
in the past is ever recreated, nothing
damaged ever fixed, not entirely,

like the eroding beach beneath
my feet—no Golden Age to
return, no, never, no future bliss

of Kingdom Come, only this present
moment. And I don’t know what
to make of it, this experiment

of the now that resists observation
or interpretation, and is unmerciful
to any miscalculation.