Disconnected, all empathy bleeds
out, mass extinctions nothing in
the shadow of the personal.
The objects of attachment fall
away with the climb, the acceleration—
sheltering rooftops, playgrounds,
streets, cars, pools, the nervousness
then dissipate with the clouds.
Free will long since bartered
for desire, landing is an abstract
possibility but unlikely at this point.
Going is all, all
by Stephen Bunch
Editor’s Note: This poem’s grim narrative drags the reader along until the brutal end.
The Day of the Eclipse
Leaves patchwork a trail to the stream.
My footfall on the bank scatters the trout
who come to spawn each August, jeweled
reflections following instinct.
My son called today, a should-he
or shouldn’t-he conversation. I listened,
questioned. His indecision is unknown
by wild things who live the primordial,
Through the trees, moon eclipses sun
in an eerie twilight not ruled by manners,
mores, norms. Crickets start reverberations
in the trees. Bright glints in the water move
through my shadow, the moon’s shadow—
stars in an ancient galaxy.
by Sarah Russell
Editor’s Note: This poem’s quiet imagery belies the extraordinary nature of the eclipse that fell across the North American continent. It’s insistence on ordinary things illuminates how extraordinary it is that we are all alive at all.
day turns from bright dawn
to paler shades of blue
your face turns grey
perhaps you hear our voices
brothers, daughter, lover, poet, nurse
but in reality
it’s a slow fading of light
perhaps voices, perhaps a dream
from the bridge you look out at water
Winooski River grey
ice chunks against a dam
brick mill buildings
hum of your bicycle tires on a street
Tuesday morning repeats itself
birds outside a screen porch
singing the same songs
over and over
songs fade to grey
for George Mathon 1945-2017
by George Longenecker
Editor’s Note: The aching grief in this poem is emphasized by the repetition. We will all experience this day eventually.
Never had so many songbirds been so silent.
Not one was spreading noise, curving over the pines.
A congregation had gathered, and not one bird
erected a thin mist of music. Not one note
rustled its wings. It was eerie. Curse?
Silent worship? What caused this hush?
There were so many birds in the sky
like rainclouds, darkening, enigmatic, quiet —
a strangeness of birds, and their ambiguity
purposeful, their luxuriant colors, their frequency
of moment — why were they composed
this way? This wall of fragments and silence,
not even one wing beat? Are they insulting us?
Is there some bad news that they are encapsulating?
by Martin Willitts Jr.
Martin on Facebook
Editor’s Note: This poem’s eerie questions seem strangely apt today, in the midst of Hurricane Harvey’s ongoing lashing of the Texan coast.
From an Empty Nest
He watches each leaf
drop painfully slow,
parting the way two
hands shaking let go
after a final embrace:
outstretched, silent, and bare;
the other strains
and falls away
by sailing outwardly
of dubious air quality.
He knows this leaving
is natural: leaves
must fall for newer vistas
just to tease
the hairy sky; and he
must trust the bole
that memories of spring
will fill the hole.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, September 29, 2016 — by Gregory Palmerino
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
by Charlotte Brontë (1816-1855)
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim.
The First Night
You don’t know the kid slumped dead
drunk on the sidewalk. Someone says
he lives in your dorm. Sick already
of the squandering of this night,
you offer to escort him back in a taxi.
The driver threatens $300 if he pukes.
He pukes. You hand over his credit
card, sick already of the squandering
of this night. Back in the dorm,
you do not pass him off to his RA,
a mandatory reporter. The kid was dumb,
but so were thousands, everyone
getting the same letter to avoid this,
which all ignored. You want him to live
through the night, prop him on his side,
face over the trash, check his breathing
for hours, sick already of the squandering
of this night. Tomorrow, you hope
he will thank you. Tomorrow, you hope
college will be fun.
by Devon Balwit
Editor’s Note: Enjambment and repetition create an uneasy emotional narrative in this poem. Many of us will recognize the sentiment of the last two lines.