Five Poems by Jeremy Proehl

 

Cedar

(Alpena Walk June 10, 2022)

 

I smell felled trees

before I see the caution sign,

“Logging Ahead.”

 

Wet cedar in the morning mist

chunks, striped shreds —

 

a crow kvetches at my presence

squeezing my dismay

of another treeless lot.

 

Yet, I live in a wood house

where trees once buffered

the winds of Lake Huron.

 

I have gone to the mill

bought lumber, without thought

because I wanted it

 

as if I was breathing

an endless source of oxygen.

 

I am distracted

by a red gate in a field

covered in fracted morning light.

 

The smell of fallen cedars

and the sound of irritated crows

fade

            with

                        each

                                    step.

 

 

Mourning Dove

(Alpena walk June 10, 2022)

 

This is the first time

I have heard a mourning dove

with its “who are you” call.

 

I go to answer

but it has gone silent

so, I go silent.

 

 

I Do Not Speak

(Alpena walk September 28, 2022)

 

            “Leaving out God and science” from This Far In by Carl Phillips

 

I do not speak animal

there are, too many

languages to learn

with no teachers

just observers.

 

A sound

in the fielded distance

is fractured

like fallen death

that lies across

my path.

 

Animal calls

of morning’s night

frightful to this

neophyte observer.

 

I cannot see

what I hear.

I cannot hear

what my mind sees

because I do not speak

its language

 

but I feel it.

 

 

Shadow

Alpena Walk June 8, 2022

 

nesting

in the reedy scrim

of North Point Road

 

crossing

disappearing into

Little Harry’s Hunt Club

 

shadow

among shadows

lost to the morning sunlight

 

I take another step forward

 

 

Mercy

 

“Compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm.” — Oxford Languages

 

I drove to the woods

to be removed, a traveller,

a visitor, a stranger,

someone filled with hope

vivid with desire —

a wisher of connection with

what was absent in my life.

 

Yet, there you lay,

the first thing I saw

half covered in last year’s

fallen leaves, unable to see,

beak open, soundlessly moving

sharing the air of the celadon canopy —

removed, a traveller, a visitor,

a stranger filled with hope —

vivid with desire

covered in opaque crimson mucus

and blue pieces of shell.

 

I could not see the clutch

that you had once been a part of.

Such a strange word “clutch”

considering how a few moments

changed your life.

 

Did you fall? 

Were you rejected,

discarded by your mother?

 

I thought a moment.

There was no forbearance in my action,

I ended your life as quickly as I came upon it

telling myself that I

was showing

you

mercy.

Jeremy Proehl - has had poems published in several anthologies: Kent State’s Edith Chase Symposium, Hessler Street Fair, #ThisIsCle Poetry, and others. He has also been published in print and online in the following journals:  Headline Poetry & Press, Ink Sweat & Tears, Poetry Pea, Muleskinner Journal, The Westchester Review, Panoply, The Grindstone, Otherwise Engaged Literary & Art Journal, The Milk House Journal, and others.  He was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2022. 

Jeremy has participated in the Cleveland poetry scene, enjoying reading at open mics for almost 20 years. He attends the biennial Dodge Poetry Festival and has participated in the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conferences, Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, Catamaran Writing Conference, the Lost Lake Writers Retreat and other poetry workshops over the years. Dan Chiasson mentioned Jeremy in an article he wrote for the August 2019 issue of The New Yorker.

He works in the garage-door industry.  Jeremy and his wife have recently relocated to their Michigan cabin with their two Labradors where they enjoy time in the woods.