G. Louis Heath
Listening PostThis patch of sand assigned me in this
Wide world is where I listen. I hear Footfalls echo, pages turning in memory And history. I hear the few march, then The many, a swell of leather thundering Onto the strand. Clouds build in my eyes, Tears rain, and great waves crash. Much Is spoken from these roaring walls of sea. The cries carry far over the sands of my life And yours, all of us. Mercy bids they fade Into the caressing breath of a sea long ago. Today I listen to that sea whisper salt onto The scars trod by the many on that far shore. A Boy in the Family OrchardI roam through my family’s orchard, lost
In random thoughts that fly with bees and Fruit flies. As I walk the bountiful lanes of Peaches, the trees dapple images in filigree At my bare, aimless feet. My mind conjures A shape from each shadow as I walk the lanes Of fruit. A dish of ice cream soothes. An auto Wreck terrifies. A favorite teacher makes me Smile. It goes on like this. Dark scenes stalk Bright ones as the shadows shape-shift tree to Tree. I decode the pictures in the soil until my Mother calls me in to dinner from my reveries. On the Wayward PathThe limestone bluff bulged into the sky as I
Walked the creek below. The white-wine light Of the risen moon etched a subtle pattern on The trail into the woods where the moon winked Between boulders and stands of birch and poplar. I was feeling lost, or just out of sorts. Maybe it Was the cold or the ice-crystal moon. From the Shadows just ahead, a new shadow emerged, its Plumed breath a smoky, shimmering dialogue Balloon, bound to burst upon me. Maybe a big Moment in time for me, a message preternatural, A profound turning point. My wayward, cold feet Froze in place as I discerned the moose just ahead. It stood for the longest time, eyeing me, taking my Measure. I looked straight at him, as best I could, Man to moose, for the millennia. I shall never ever Forget those few seconds in the shadows where time Stood still for me, till that moose spoke and moved on.
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Man in the RiverI found his body in a river shallows, mutilated,
The head cut off. The police arrived just before Three p.m. to cordon off the scene and begin Their investigation. I riveted my attention on carp And minnows nibbling the wounds while birds of Prey wheeled above. Nature had begun to work Its ways, ways we would interrupt. To witness Another human, even one unknown, defiled to Mangled carrion, headless, floating, wrecked the Veneer of normality that smooths my days. There The fictions that ruled my life did not work. I Wondered how to fit the horror into my view of Humankind. One of our so-called human family Wrought this upon this nameless man. I recall The utter stillness of that hot summer day that Brought a wave of flies to the bloated corpse. The scene before me was not still, but it had to Be for me, by which I mean the slowest slow Motion I could unreel. I could begin to handle that Kind of slow, like maybe I could slow time, throw It in reverse, bring this man back to life, make it All all right again. But I could not. Despite the Carnage, I continue on as flesh and blood with a Mind that must not deny forever. I must accept That this bad thing that happened has happened. The bower of death arches over me, all of us, All the time, in every valley, on every plain and Prairie, on every mountain, in sea and sky, on all The highways and byways, in city, town, and Village, in every river, and in that river of death. I will pray for this victim who met this violent, grisly End. I will do what I can, whatever that may be, but As much as I can, to prevent future mayhem. And I Will carry on as flesh and blood, forever changed. On the Far ShoreOutside my cottage, the lake is stiff as steel. Fog rises,
A milky, evanescent scrim over the harsh vista of ice. It is by far, by far, no place for me, but it must be, I can see. Through roiling, tantalizing fingers of shape-shifting fog, A lonely birch flanks a solitary figure in white, a tall man Unknown to me. I know what he wants. He knows me. Quick as a squirrel, I flick on my crampons and trek the Brute ice. I know he will welcome me, my stark deity by The shore. He may be just a shadow in the fog but today I Must know he is not just one more birch on the far shore, so Close to home but so far. My breath parachutes a cloud of Fine glitter before me, but I do not care. Ice makes me free. |
