Offline by Charles Carr

Offline

The sound of morning
steps down a mountain,
not really a noise,
more the eyes explain
the sun walks
on water
to the other senses.
If it is Saturday
I sit in a chair that rocks
and overlooks the role
of the river,
how it holds a heron
in place by the ankles
until its long neck
forms the bones
at the end of hush
to let loose
such a wingspan
no amount of highway
is necessary
to know which direction
the day is going

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: The imagery and personification in this poem remind the reader that poetry is an art, not simply communication.

A tiny dance of coming to by Charles Carr

A tiny dance of coming to

The first faded sight of blue,
just enough dark sees
the moon as a big toe
in a torn sock,
seven o’clock traffic is
an agitated ocean,
a tide changing
its mind, wipers sweep
clean where night slept
dew on the windshield,
now the sun is a thumb
pierces the skin
of an orange,
it seems impossible
the sky fits it all in its mouth
at once and suddenly
the taste of light on everything.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: The imagery in this poem meanders from personification to surrealism, but the emotional undertone remains luminous.

Push mower by Charles Carr

Push mower

The first circle of half acre
elbows its way past the smell of gas,
nine arborvitae are much bigger
than planted five years ago would suggest,
stronger than my legs at sixty-one.

My weimaraner is up to her ankles
in shallow river, her webbed toes
conjugating some verb other than swim.
Afternoon heat climbs the mountain
like the first bare feet of summer.

An hour may pass but time matters less
than the sycamore branch lifts me
higher than wherever clouds go
when the sky clears
the sun pushes my tall shadow
through the uncut grass.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: Personification sits within the lines of this poem with ease, ushering in the scent and sense of the summer season.

A couple of old prose by Charles Carr

A couple of old prose

Metabolic function, universal law,
type B follows A, she the latter,
he the former, the day is a wholesale
club, televisions with pictures the size
to replace windows altogether, samples
of flavors not meant to gather at the same
time, the produce section and they are
obvious, blemished as though finished,
ready to be replaced by the firm and not quite
purple feel of youth. She is comfortable
and vindicated personalizing a package
of blueberries, he contemplates what
it means, the flurries of people, the sounds
they make, no two the same, not snowflakes
necessarily, more like notes in a Dizzy
Gillespie horn of plenty. She jerks his
stupor with proud display of her completed
masterwork, a container well beyond
its capacity to hold which is approximately
when they scatter to the floor like children
rushing from the open doors of a bus,
like harder to handle pieces of a world
gets smaller and easier to fall off the face
of it all, the unraveled emergency in her voice,
his reaction, the practiced precision, the way
he captures and returns all but one berry
just out of reach in a corner where it spins
like a finger to the lips, like the unteetered
hush of a delicate balance.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: Punny word play delights the ear in this poem (clearly meant to be read aloud).

Well within the stretch by Charles Carr

Well within the stretch

Days like this when the sun
looks back over a shoulder
of mountain for one last
count of seven cows
and the tops of too many
hardwoods to mention
before it places the fully
extended wings of a bald eagle
in the sky over our heads
so close the yellow wildflowers
at our feet reveal themselves
as being the feathers of goldfinch
all long and none of us
remembers what it means
to breathe and let me say
if you have never heard
an afternoon stutter for breath
it is the sound a stone makes
as it skips an impossible
distance across the surface
of the river right past
the steep path that leads
to the house where later
tonight we will wonder
if the stone is still going
then fall asleep that much
younger to imagine
it most certainly is.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: This poem’s long thought happens without punctuation or pause, reinforcing the title and final image.

sex at sixty by Charles Carr

sex at sixty

So many bluebirds,
it must be the sky
trying to clear its head,
daffodils stand at attention,
a bugle corps of color
but the only sound is
a march wind pushing
against trees
like the creak of an old door
when it opens;
spring sneaks in on several
of its sixty-eight degrees,
both of us are in agreement,
it’s more like rolling downhill
than the jumping off cliffs
of our youth
and the best part of all
is the time we take
to climb back to the top
of an hour past noon,
how the light
at the window glows
liked the embarrassed face
of entering a room
without knocking.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: The gorgeous imagery in this poem creates a perfect window into real life (and love).

Kite Weather by Charles Carr

Kite Weather

Nothing is quite so
open arms
as the clear hello
of not a cloud
in the sky,
a Saturday
like the running start
of March.
Winds are brisk
and bring the best
out of flannel,
it is in the air,
the inside out
of blooms, the birds
and bees of it all,
small stuff giving
way to little things,
the spring in the steps
of a man walks his dog
contradicts the snow
of their hair,
a tug of leash
in both directions
is plenty of string to go
though neither seems able
to answer the question
of who’s flying who.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: The delightful personification that opens this poem leads the reader on a brisk walk into a bright spring day.