Woodpecker
A woodpecker knocks on the door of the
world
in rhythm
with lost typewriters
asking the eternal question Why?
No answer from the sky.
Let me in, let me in; he’s a hammer
and a heartbeat with a single tempo
mind and already an echo
of himself
as he picks his spot
and nails fate to the wall.
Paw Prints
The raccoon who comes in the night
inspects the foundations
of life, liberty and the pursuit
of happiness until the secret hour
when he leaves a paw print
on the window ledge
and slips through the space between two
AM and three
with stars in his coat. He doesn’t
have a word for trash, and none
for loneliness. He follows
where the moon leads and knows his place
on Earth is two parts darkness, one
the silver trail that leads
to backyard bins
filled with the discarded wrappings
of chocolate bars and hope.
Moth on a Summer Night
The sky left a fingerprint
on the water in a bird bath
and it floated all night
on the moon’s reflection.
Who knows
who came to drink? Who saw
darkness walking through
the bushes? Who ran
back into the burrow lined with old
remembrances? The Screech owl
knows.
And carries off its secrets
to the nest of no return.
The day’s first touch lifts
wings back to the light
and the moth
is resurrected
as a flake of mercy flying.
The Feathered Call
A teacup full of silence
on the nightstand, the hawk asleep with one
eye open, the blue
recycling bin full with all
that needs recycling
and a great horned
memory on its way
to where the news goes when
a broadcast ends. Stars float
on the nearby pond
while the owl’s soft
notes glide over water
as it takes a mouse’s curly soul
to line its nest. The night
puts on its darkest coat.
Craniotomy
A friendly man out walking
through his local park
responding to a stranger’s greeting lifts
his cap revealing the dents
on his skull as he smiles to say
he’s well. It’s been
a dizzy time although
he stands up straight and in
the course of conversation points
toward the sky in thanks
for how he feels today. The mockingbirds
are busy not believing
in any god who doesn’t fly, but who’s
to say how healing
or insects fit to eat
arrive on Earth. Inquire of the mountain.
Let the rain decide. When someone
starts with the answer
there’s no need to ask.
David
Chorlton is
a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems have
appeared in many publications online and in print, and often reflect his
affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects
of human behavior. He lives near the large patch of desert that runs through
Phoenix and shares its wildlife with the urban area. His newest collections of
poems are Unmapped Worlds from FutureCycle, and Poetry Mountain
from Cholla Needles Arts and Literary Library in Joshua Tree, CA.
‘Woodpecker’ stopped me in my tracks. Thank you.
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