Five Sublime Poems by John Riley

 

The First Eyes I've Ever Seen

 

I ran a ferry centuries ago

ran its metal through the night

cold everything so cold

my dying pride left me

unable to acknowledge the ice

lured by the obsidian arms

beneath the water’s skin only men

able men not fearsome men

were invited down the gangplank

where the ferry captain before me had carved

impressions of the planets passed

on the oily deck

the truth is I brought children on-board

bundled in old bedclothes

assembled them in rows

inside the dark cabin

it is more important for you to stay quiet tonight

than any other time in our life

I warned them and looked back to the compass

to the expanse of sea and fog

I felt them staring at me as the engines turned

guided our blunt bow

neither east nor west

nor north or south

into the cold night

Dandelions

 

She will still whisper dandelion fluff into the night,

so creaky and clumsy when it began to stand

to spread thin shadows toward the horizon,

and although this night lacks the necessary darkness

she will insist on following it down the street,

perhaps she can entice it to draw up

to rest on the edge of the town

and, while resting there, she will finish the dying

she started the day before, alone now

but for the night and remembrances

of emerging into the world, never a loud child,

always confused, and now, sitting

at attention beside the night that will soon

leave her behind, and she remembers

every stroke of her first swim

but for the life of her can't remember anyone

answering when she asked if this is the key

to the deserted shack that stood at an angle

beside the farm pond that was there long

before she was born and is still standing now,

covered with moss and weeds, leaning to gravity

pulled by the attractive force of which it has no mind.

The Monotony Of Bitter Monologues

 

A voluntary outcast, he withdrew to the empty room at the end of the hall and entrenched himself there with his solitude.

 

We forgot about him. – Bruno Schultz

 

Last evening, weary of reading,
I stepped into my yard.
Out of the magnolia dark
I watched the cynical stars
tease a darkening sky.
My thoughts willed to turn
to images of grace and how
they must pass through
a splendid gate opening.
I strained to hold

such furry images tight
though I knew grace
or roses don't fall
from great heights
to fold across our faces.
The street two blocks over
was caged between lines
of marchers from the campus
heading toward downtown
with its single tall building.
I could hear their amplified chants,
the honking horns, the fury.
It was the fourth night of rage
no different from the rage
that sent the same marchers
down the same street
when it was narrower
and I was a child with
no whiskery father
and no artificial skies.
I closed my eyes, wanted
to see pistons pounding,
blue sparks flying—
old images of things built,
progress completed—
all I saw was a darkness
and black dots fleeing,
no machine achieving glory,
no mystery reaching its zenith,
no sky rising up while
another sky bears down.

Small Bodies Of Water

 

Yes sir, I confess there have been times

when I did not care how young the earth is

or take pride in how she sprang back to green

regardless of how hard the white fought.

There have been times, yes, when I lacked the will

to notice such things and knew that below

the water's surface there is only more surface.

Today I had contempt for how the fish hurried to the far bank

as I approached and thought him silly to run away

when I only wanted to admire his wide innocent eyes.

I called him a name under my breath and resolved

to tell others that fish will make them more alone.

I met no one to listen though and my thoughts burned away.

When I think of the fish now all I feel is envy at how

he darted away with an invisible flip of his tail,

and that his pond is the smallest of the three

we may visit when the weather permits.

Prison Workers Stand By The Flooded Swamp

 

Look, there they stand

shovels alert

as though protecting

the mixture of earth

and serpent skins.

 

The wet, thick soil

drinks in the sun.

A dirt elixir

stirred by rushes

and filtered by muck.

 

Come, think with them,

if we could burrow

into the particles

how free we'd be

inside those spacious cells.

John Riley has published poetry and fiction in Smokelong Quarterly, Connotation Press, Fiction Daily, The Molotov Cocktail, Dead Mule, St. Anne's Review, Better Than Starbucks, and numerous other anthologies and journals both online and in print. He has also written over thirty books of nonfiction for young readers and continues his work in educational publishing.