Closing In
It thunders like a freight train
rolling toward me,
a bowling ball hitting pins,
scattering, cars crashing
metal flying, glass splinters flashing
through air like lightning.
It thunders like a trumpet calling
all nations for judgment.
A lion, a bear growling,
like cymbals clashing.
I listen to the drum roll,
the crescendo of clouds brawling,
tumbling over chairs,
fists knocking the table of cards
stacked with memory.
When thunder rumbled through
our town, mother lit a candle,
crossed her chest, called me to
prayer.
Earth shifting below the runes
of branches, the house walls,
windows clattering. It thunders
like the murmur of millions
grovelling beneath the black sky.
When
Rain Speaks
after Edna
St. Vincent Millay
Upended,
my purse spills contents like clouds
spill
rain full of ghosts tonight. They
saw me
through
the window of imagination, ambled
toward
me, tiny bells around their necks, nosing
the
glass. They came through the blue of
catnip,
salvia,
hydrangea, gently like cats, those child
ghosts
of shootings, of forgetfulness that a life
is
irreplaceable. They call to me between
rain
and
rush of wind, knocking on the sliding door.
They
ask me to stop the minds and hands
pulling
a trigger to kill. I listen to the crackle
of
my candle as they pad away through hostas
below
the magnolia, slashed into a totem pole
by
disaster I will continue to pray against.
Listening
Friends, Romans, Countrymen
lend me your
ear
Mark Antony
Give
me your ear,
sharp
as a pocket knife,
cutting
sound when opening
the
door, my channel of listening
buried
in the ground.
Give
me your anvil, hammer,
and
stirrup, forger of words
galloping
through meadows,
hoofbeats,
not praise.
When
my tongue faults
your
spiral, the coil, the hinge,
even
in stillness you are faithful
the
magnolia leaf turns,
the
ant waxes a peony bud,
blades
of grass quivering
in
the hands of a breeze.
Give
me prayers that ransom
the
sin inside you, the tone
ambitious
of a melody you crave
to
soothe the heart that mourns.
Give
me your ear for tasting
vintage,
fluid intonations,
rouching
the satin of a coffin.
But
at night give way
to
grief whispered
as
our souls seek each other.
Latch
the door.
Symphony
in Four Movements
I.
Our
garden’s woodwinds carry time,
runs
of a clarinet, birdsong.
Hostas
spread leaves, impatiens, roses,
grass
glissando in sun,
and
the magnolia pries open
folds
of creamy buds.
II.
The
house, a shelter in glum weather,
a
drum’s beating backbone of two stories,
the
lower, the upper, the loft.
In
the kitchen spoons and forks
and
knives chime like a glockenspiel.
The
bedroom’s pillows and comforters
coddle
our bodies in sleep, a garden
blooming
dreams.
III.
Family,
a waltz whirling us
around
the rooms we breathe in,
our
voices like violins,
high-pitched
or lento.
Laughter
swings from chandelier
to
couch lessening chills
as
the world chafes our souls.
IV.
Garden,
house, family – a crescendo
of
movements this orchestra plays
to
the last breath, a ride and crash
of
cymbals. Listen to the harmony
we
conduct swaying inside us.
Dear
Scale
Standing
on your podium,
I
implore your numbers,
please
give me your lowest
digits. Forget about
the
doors I opened
to
ginger-pear skillet cake,
tacos,
and a jar
of
nougat. Forget about
the
chips I dipped
in
sour cream last night
watching
Netflix.
Just
once lift off
what
weighs me down:
anger,
hateful words,
stubbornness.
But keep
truth
and lovingkindness
flowing
through me
so
I can easily pour it
into
the world.
Helga Kidder lives in
the Tennessee hills where she feeds the birds, shushes neighbours' cats away,
and writes poetry. Co-founder of the Chattanooga Writers Guild, she leads
a monthly poetry group. Her poems have recently been published in Conestoga
Zen, Poetry South, Black Moon Magazine, and others. She has five collections of
poetry, Wild Plums, Luckier than the Stars, Blackberry Winter, Loving the Dead
which won the Blue Light Press Book Award 2020, and Learning Curve - poems
about immigration and assimilation.
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