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Matthew Henningsen - 2


Eaves - Dropping

Two rows back on the
Opposite end of a train
Car that belches and roars
Out a thick, bewildering
Ash of pastes and particles
You seem to over-hear-

      “Taney and James – they’re in
      On it they are in
      Cahoots. Conspiratorial
      You might say.”

The steel train grinds-grinds-
Grinds bolts and bars and
Breaks down coal with a
Hiss a loud-loud hiss-
Of delight.

      “And a friend told me
      That a friend of his who
      Was there heard from a
      Man that Lincoln had said that
      He makes a chestnut
      Horse a horse
      Chestnut.”

Your bolted-down seat
Shakes from the pound-pound-
Pound of pistons screeching
Out steam that clings to
The misty panes of pale
Glass that you, buffeted and
Blockaded, squint through and
Through.

      “Like the roar-roar
      Of Chicago when Honest Abe’s

      Nomination came through.”
​
Picture


​Matthew Henningsen's Profile
Go to page 1 of Matthew Henningsen's poetry​

Goodbye to All That

Sudden on silent nights I 
Think of the long farewell…
The wave – 
The sweet smile hidden 
Beneath a fading sun… All this

Is lost somewhere, this 
Day of shadows and rain and 
Whispers said to calm storms 
That call out on 
Foreign, frozen sands. Like 

A petal I picked up once and 
Stored once in my pocket for 
The longest time. I 
Couldn’t let it go. Then, 
Once on days by cascading 
Trees once that hung 
With gray, smiling moss I 
Found it once again and saw that 
It had turned once into an 
Old coin I lost once, long ago, falling 

Down a well I threw it in 
For the best of luck. This 

The farewell, the long goodbye that 
I had but can’t remember on starry 
Nights by quiet streams that told 
Of storms and tables and shouts too 
Far to be heard, but seen… 

Always to be seen.
​

                                                      A Mountaineer's Lament

              Found on a ridge on
              A lonely trail.
 
You cannot find it if
You looked even so
Hard. Down deep tunnels in
Quiet mountains. In
Trees and lakes in
Towns that died long
Ago. You cannot
Find it.
 
More so think to see
It in sunshine mist on half-
Cold winter days. The form
Far off on hills that almost seem
To wave,
To us…
 
A lone bird that sits
Pensive in the cool
Morning air. You
 
Cannot find
It even if you looked even
So hard,
So still.
Go to page 1 of Matthew Henningsen's poetry

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