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…
The sun rolled back aborning
onto the east side of the house this morning.
It didn’t come with a boom or crash
like when the trucks come to take the trash.
Rather, it came without any rousing sound,
though woke me as if on my window it did pound.
It snuck into my room on little cat feet
with colors of red, yellow and white, but no heat.
It crawled from over the sill to my bed,
pried open my eyes and without words it said,
“Rise and shine like me, we’ve got a whole day ahead.”
And I did, though made a silent curse in my head.
“You wake me so damn early, you know.
I don’t have to run to work anymore to put on that show.”
Sun then replied in its silent voice,
“Well, that’s good for you, but I have no choice.
The world always turns, time never stands still,
And I’m just minding my own business, waiting until
the time comes when my light goes out
and life as you know it will be snuffed without even a shout.
On that day, when days no longer happen,
I’ll recall visiting here, and your morning yappin’.
In that moment I’ll recall how I brought this ball life
in all of its beauty, its glory and strife.
So now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading west,
And I hope that you’ll give today your best.”
Chastened, I thought of how the an eclipse turned midday to night Monday,
and I vowed to never again to waste a day, honoring each as Sun Day.
Photo © Jospeh Hesch 2016
How dark it became when
the shadow fell between us,
some celestial body or karma
casting a silhouette that’s yet
to find another path.
That’s how it goes when we
stand still and never try
to find the light once shared.
I wonder if what illuminated us
as we sailed through the void
was really just the twilight margin
between shadow and light
from which only a step—
false or otherwise—would cast us
both where sight of neither of us exists.
I used to ponder who would be
the first to stumble back
to the relative warmth
of that old penumbral frontier.
I don’t anymore.
This eclipse is total and I
dare not look at that space
where a face used to reside,
unless it’s total blindness
I’m really looking for.
A roll-out-of-bed-and-just-write no-subtext ramble. Morning mush. You can go back under the covers to the warm, safe…and dark…now.
I never liked this tie,
but it’s the only one I own
that doesn’t have some stain right over my heart.
That’s what I get for skipping breaks
and eating at my desk or hustling out
without breakfast and gulping
something down while doing 70 mph.
I should remember to take them off
before eating. Or just don’t eat jelly donuts
with powdered sugar, Big Macs or ice cream cones
in business wear.
Well, at least I have one clean tie to wear
to this meeting. I’m sure everybody,
even the governor, owns a Christmas tie
peppered with Grinches. Too bad it’s August, though.
Maybe if I maintain laser-like eye contact,
he won’t notice. That’s me, focusing on the task
in front of me, whether it’s writing a speech
or speeding through rush hour traffic.
Okay, on time and…God damn it!
The cup’s top wasn’t clicked tight.
Look at this stain! Focus, son, focus.
Yessir, good to see you, too.
Yessir, I see you’re heading out for golf.
Yessir, I’ll be brief. Yep, it sure is hot.
Coffee? No thanks, sir. Already had enough.
Make myself more comfortable? Thank you, sir.
I never liked this tie anyway.
My friend Dan Mader liked the first line of my story, The Viewing, and said it could make a great first line for any number of pieces. He should never do that to an obsessive-compulsive and competitive guy like me. So, right out of bed, focused like a laser on the task in front of me, coffee dribbled on my tee shirt, here’s my first try at The Tie. Oh, and the title, of course, comes from the Grinch song from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I thought it fit.
The tractor’s in the shop and I
should’ve sent my back there weeks ago.
So the grass out front has mounted
a full frontal assault on our home’s
curb appeal (if we had curbs)
and an interdiction upon the exercise
of my creaky and aching masculine ego.
Usually, the state of a man’s lawn
is something that will twist his
Obsession Dial to 9 or 10, especially
from April to Independence Day.
But sometime after that, the drive
to maintain that pool table-perfect
expanse of turf withers a bit,
not unlike the object of my
all-consuming passion for greensward.
But let one person ask what happened
to the once-plumb and level landscape,
and the explosion of counter offensive
will lay low the Creeping Charlie that
dares to peek its head above the fescue.
I turn busy anthills, lumpy underfoot,
into smooth and fertile ossuaries
for the insects more industrious
than the he whose subsoil they mined.
Your homeowner, smug, sweat-soaked
and satisfied, heads into the house
for a shower, beer and nap. I don’t
yet know how last night grubs hatched
and moles and crows will tear
this man’s lawn into no man’s land
In the distance, rain clouds
drop millions of miniature prisms
as they march upon Mechanicville.
But it isn’t the Sunday afternoon
shower catching my attention.
As too little sleep dims my vision,
today closes its solar eye
over the rooftops behind me.
I cast a shadow a furlong eastward,
seemingly reaching for the trees
that glisten as they breathe in
the southwest breeze.
They’ve taken on a flaxen glow,
like a coterie of Fox News bunnies
beaming into their key lights.
They’re fair in the balanced
auric light, a photographer’s dream,
turning them into brilliant beings
of otherworldly luminescence.
The rain’s turned into an inclusive
rainbow spanning the Hudson,
while I turn to the west and
am enlightened, my face taking on
a glowing mask of a rapturous mien.
It’s as if all of us have been touched
by a greater power at this, the Golden Hour.
And that’s Real News.
This was one of those allegedly inspired pieces that drew me out of what I was doing and demanded to be written before it was lost in the darkness. I’m not saying it was a divine inspiration or even one of any importance. The premise/hook/true subject didn’t occur to me until I finished the first draft, which this, for all intent, is. But the trees really did look like a bunch of hyperventilating blondes heaving their bosoms in the glow of the Golden Hour, which seems some sort of blessing for those of us who view such light as a gift from above. And I mean more than 93,000,000 miles above. Photo © Joseph A. Hesch 2016
There on the road ahead,
a mirror lies. It tells
a story so slant you can
see up by looking down.
But that’s a mirror for you,
always showing you
the opposite of the truth,
though still truth, nonetheless.
Everyone knows when mirrors
fall to the ground they’ll
shatter into any number
of pieces, all of them
complicit in the same
conspiracy to tell the same
story, though some lie
bigger than others.
This mirror is antithetical
to the opposite kind gracing
your wall or dresser.
It began as pieces that fell
to earth in yesterday’s storm,
each reflecting the same setting.
Once on the road, it formed
the scene I see within its margins.
When I entered this watery one,
suddenly, there are more liars
than when I left the roadway.
But that’s a puddle for you,
splattering its own prismed
fiction all over you.
Liars lying no more.