Sifting Through the Dust

The tactile memories have
flown with the winds of time,
carried on the dust
of crumbled happiness.
Would you recognize the voice
if it echoed back, back, back
to your age-muffled ears?
Would you attest, “Yes, that’s
the one,” should they approach
through these dark dreamy mists?
Probably not, since all you recall
are feelings, emotional placeholders,
little more than silhouettes
of erstwhile three dimensional,
wished-for perceptions.
So why do you hold onto
these faded portraits
of the never-really was?
Perhaps it’s because you hope
someone’s sifting through the dust
of shadow-thin memories of You,
and wondering, too.

Why It’s Called the Evening

Sometimes I wonder why
I live so much life
when you are done
living yours each day.
As you lie in your bed,
resting and recovering
from the energy spent
being you or assuming
the role draped across
your waking shoulders,
I come to life,
in the near-sleep,
staring straight up
into the dark, where
my imagination shines.
While you sleep,
we are performing
feats unthinkable
in daytime, when
the light blinds
my mind’s eye.
It is my balancing time
between day’s dull reality
and night’s brilliant hope,
no matter how fanciful.
Maybe that’s why it’s called
the Evening.

Poem-a-Day for April 26th, an “evening” poem.

The Face of Caer Ibormeith

Illustration from The Dream of Aengus, by Ted Nasmith

It’s a world I cannot find
when my eyes, like day’s,
close in the darkness.
I wish to see that face,
hear the stories she can tell,
follow it where its may lead.
But I only lie in silence,
with an eye-blink, lids down
and snapping back open,
seemingly in a slice of a second,
yet six hours passing.
In that speck of time perceived,
she my forebears called Caer Ibormeith
never appears, doesn’t invite me
to her realm, and I awaken
with my mind’s hands empty
of what you take for granted
yet I never grasp…
Dreams.

My Tragicomic Work in Progress

“Everyone is trying to read the last page of the book.”
~ Chuck Todd, Meet The Press Daily, June 20, 2017

When I was a kid, I’d often sit
and wonder how my life would turn out,
the whole epic saga of Joe Hesch.
Would it be a thick volume or two,
full of adventures and notable acts
of merit or valor? Or perhaps
a pamphlet of failure and sadness?
And thus far, I have found,
as I reach the climax of this tale
full of sound and fury,
but mostly quiet and solitude,
it’s been told by an idiot,
an actor scuffling across his stage
forgetting his lines. Or, more likely,
his lines being forgotten.

I’ve had my entrances and exits,
my hour upon the stage, and then
I’ll likely be heard no more.
And that’s all right, I guess.
I just hope that I’m able to write it
to its denouement, penning a satisfied
Finis to its last page.
And I still dream. Dream that, like
younger me, older me, current me,
not necessarily everyone, just you,
someday have a yen to find
where my pen took it. Even if
only to see your part in what’s still
my tragicomic work in progress.

My somewhat poetic free-written take on this week’s Writing Outside the Lines challenge presented by my friend Annie Fuller. This week it’s prompted by that quote from NBS News’ political editor and moderator of its venerable Meet the Press Sunday morning show.

Love Like a River

Photo by Joseph Hesch © 2014

I can feel the breath on my face,
in waves as cool and metrical
as the current slaps the shore
in its Spring sprint to the sea;
or as warm and moist as a lover’s
sleeping against me on a summer night,
languid, as if waiting for me
to crack her still surface
as if it was ice, to entice those
ripples of movement that would

echo

echo

echo

until coming to shimmering rest
like a sigh on the shoreline.
How many times have I wished
to float with her, letting her guide me
to her mouth, ignoring others’ views
of her boundaries conquerable only by
the arch artifices of arrogant men?
They’ve never appreciated her music
as I have, never watched how she reflects
whoever gazes upon her, be it the
drifting clouds above waving like flags
on her breeze-rippled skin, or my face,
still as a statue’s, as I seek answers
to questions I’ve never been able to ask.
It’s then I realize she’s done that
all along in her constancy, her depth,
her shallowness, her ever-open blue eyes
I’d fall into right now if not for the fact
they’ve absorbed me, absolved me first.

For Day 29 of my NaPoWriMo poem-a-day challenge, I was to take one of my favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it, then free-write associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then I was to use that original word and the results of the free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem. The original poem I chose was perhaps my favorite, William Stafford’s “Ask Me.” For what it’s worth, this process is one I use all the time in writing new poems and stories.

Perchance to Dream

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When darkness
finally swallowed me,
I sank below the surface
into the blessed death
that isn’t The End.
There’ve been times
I’d have accepted
that ultimate
punctuation mark,
the black-dot
full-stop
from which there’s
no catching your breath,
no ellipsis, and
never any question.

This time, though,
the bliss I miss
wrapped me
in its arms,
holding me,
carefree and numb,
until that rarest treasure,
a dream,
opened my hooded mind’s eye
and there you stood.
Must’ve been a dream,
because you loosened
sleep’s sweet embrace
with an unsolicited kiss,
something that’ll haunt
my ever-restless nights
for weeks.

Bedtime poem about bedtime.

Missing You

empty-bed-pillow-sleep-black-white-star-alter-ego-writer

“Do you miss me?”
she asked me tonight.
“Of course I miss you.
How could I not?” I said.
“How much do you miss me?”
she asked in that way
women ask questions
they wrap around
emotion-tripped IEDs.
They’ll look at you with
an expression of expectation
that your answer will bring
the sensitive revelation
they crave from you.
Guys seek yes or no.
Black or white.
Click or boom. Maybe
with a spot of gray-scale
adjectival variance
for comparison purposes only.

I sighed and said,
“I miss you more than
I ever thought this man
could miss another,
with more tears than any
ocean could hold,
with the lonesome chill
of a blanketless night
on a new moon prairie.”
“Then smile,” she said.
“C’mere, I’m still here.”
I opened my eyes and scanned
the room, reached for her
empty pillow beside me,
pressing my hand to it,
warming and denting it as if
her head still did.

I rested my face upon
the momentary warmth and
inhaled the vague aroma of her.
still left to me
“Yes you are,” I said,
and went back to sleep.