The Angelus

The Angelus

after the rain,
I returned home
to this valley,
where the rivers race
with the wildfowl flying south
and  words in the sateen night
cry of home and haven…

after the rain,
I remained in peace
as silence from the heart
overwhelmed me.
Fallow are the fields
where tall corn flourished.

Death stroked like a clock
rousing light from the long night:

My Brother, my brother,
where have you gone?

Hesse is rewritten.
Narcissus falls to AIDS
and Goldmund lives on.

after the rain
this blue shimmer raises
chills,
within the patchwork
of this quilt,
I cuddle your warm memory
named in the block
sewn on my heart.

after the rain,
an infant sun breaks rays
with the noon angelus,
a huckstered rooster crows
and corn greens
summer’s fields again.

Needs – Love Poem

The calico needs a sunny sill,
Roses need their water,
And marl needs the skilfull hands
Of an artistic potter.

Children need a guiding hand,
Prophets hunt what’s true,
The faery needs an Irish glen
And darling, I need you.

The violet loves the morning dew,
Red clover loves the bees,
The Chinook loves a running stream
And darling, I love you!

For Renee – All the Nights Unborn

A day without you casts shadows on my heart

The lack of you is loss of light

Drear spirits magnify when we’re apart

I ache to hold you through the night.

I ache to hold you through all the nights unborn

And laugh with you throughout the days

From the sunsets in the eves

To the sunrise in the morn.

©Charles Elledge2008

After the Storm

I mercurochrome my heart with words,

Taking perverse pleasure in the sting

That truth inflicts.

I turn my back to the door

Her back saw last and ignore the urge

To walk to the telephone,

Some words are swords edgewise

To walk upon.

I watch winter whiteout my window

And stroke my cat, Capsaicin.

He purrs, stretching under my fingers,

Alone knowing the right words.

©Charles Elledge1997

Short Poems Are Like Pop-Up Windows

Short poems are like pop-up windows that just appear from nowhere while I’m “surfing” life. Things just hit me and I dash off a quick line or two under my breath. Sometimes I even write them down. This morning it was cold and a fog drifted in off the Missouri River while the moon tried hard to shine through. Then I went cemetery hunting, photographing graves for Find-A-Grave online and I thought how for everything we hold important and do to “raise” ourselves – in the end we’re all the same. Finally, I had lunch and discovered that its almost time for a new pair of jeans.

Equality

The grass is as green and the sod as bedewed

No matter whose bones are providing the food.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

A Bowl Full of Jelly

Isn’t it funny that meat

Or anything else that I eat

Turns up on my belly

In a bowl full of Jelly

That disguises my eyes from my feet.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Missouri Moon

It is called a Missouri Moon,

A butterscotch disc

Melting in the mist of morning

©CharlesElledge2008

A Piece of the Rose

A Piece of the Rose

A petal fluttered to the ground,

Sere and curled, faded brown:

A bit of rose, once brilliant red,

is lost – now found among the nettles.

.

Two hearts were sleeping,

dream-searching for a sign.

Two hearts were weeping

over love they couldn’t find.

If retrieved this hope, this pain,

another chance for heart to sing,

.

for mind to reel and ache to feel,

would I chance this agony again?

My beating heart cannot be stilled

in search for truth and love to share.

Bewildered? Yes, but also thrilled

at the audacious love I want to dare!

.

Forsaken once, and yet once more,

I bent and gathered up the petal:

more precious now than it was before

This faded bit of rose among the nettles.

©Grandpockets2008

Axe of Minutes – Poem

As always there is a poem in every day, and like days some are better than others. I kind of liked this one, though. I should probably settle into a “style” but I go back and forth between rhyme and non-rhyme in poetry. I like both.

Axe of Minutes

As axe will bite with solid chunk
the stubborn grain
of yesterday’s oak,
tomorrow’s fire
waits to consume the once living:

and I live that blade, honed minutes,
clean wedge of today popped
from yesterday’s folly:
tomorrow’s wisdom
waits to comprehend.

Before the fire,
I plant memories.

I AM THE RIVER

I am the River

I am the river
Run into the sea
Mingling in waters
Far deeper than me,

I am the ruin
Far under the waves
Recalling the river
Of previous days,

Recalling the sun
Of my love’s memory
My tears form a river
Run into the sea,

The river, the ruin,
The sun gone to night,
The sea overwhelmed me
When my love left the light.

©Charles Elledge

Cornfield Sex Adventure Poem

Cornfield Sex Adventure

waiting to be husked

like an ear of ripened corn

trembling on the stalk,

green gowned and golden,

tassles shaking,

teasing me.

“Come here, bee,” sweetcorn says,

a pollination proposition

and me, a bee with honeyed stinger

buzzing at the thought

of spreading a little magic dust,

only –

puzzled,

flying in circles,

(not knowing that its impossible for bees to fly

according to physicists at Newton’s knee)

Where the hell is the flower ?

.

Grammarians, poets, philosophers:

Which is worse –

a broken metaphor

or a lost chance at

a first shuck?

©Charles Elledge2008

Suicide in an Alien Night

It is discomfiting to experience a suicide taking place just outside your door, as happened to me in my home some years ago, when I’d just moved to the southend in Saint Joseph on Colorado Street, and a man pulled up at the curb, disconsolate over who knows what and put a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. A total stranger yet the effect his last act had on me was lasting and profound. I can only imagine the pain his family felt and their anguish.

A Suicide One Alien Night

Sentry hours when a car passing draws you to the window,
squinting in the blackhole that is the rest-of-them universe,
disturbed that someone parks under your elm.

Alien nights are not for interrogatories,
astronomers just observe anomalies intently with
some calculation, this becomes a simple decision. Watch.

Hemingway sat in Ketchum, disconsolate and afraid. What
a novel “For Whom the Bell Tolls” was. It tolled for him,
sitting in Ketchum, alone, like the man in the car outside.

I can write about Hemingway. I know him from his works
and his biographers. You can understand a man from his
books. All I know about the man at my curb that alien night

was how I observed him in the darker-darkness of light
inside looking out and the gunshot that scared slash-strokes
of Van Gogh’s blackbirds from my elm, and the police

using my phone to call his next of kin.
I didn’t know his name, a stranger escaping the”rest-of-them” universe.
He left no books to read, no note to help us understand.

Alien nights
are not for interrogatories,
astronomers just observe
anomalies, hemingways
and dimly seen stars blinking out in the blackwash of night.

©Charles Elledge 2008