Sonnet for Mountain Ash
Fearful of the encroaching flame of the field
that hugs the mountain pass a burned grey field of
devastation a fire was stoked then left to resolve
shining in the bitter clarity of cinder holding
the space where a tower was once constructed a lunar
landscape that glimmers under sunlight as you pause
to catch your breath still searching for language
to complete the instant a drum pounding in your
ears it’s as if a kind of love is holding you trapped
and motionless but the berries in the trees are red
as blood hesitation now over you take the winding plunge
drunk on speed alone an eagle tracking as you flee
this volcanic place faster and still tighter until you
relax into the cracked grey asphalt of a parking lot.
Once in Sinai
We walked out onto the silent
trails as the lights slowly dimmed
it felt like a good place to die
so peaceful and inevitable
the women already knew what
would happen but we were slow
to realize as always it was
the time of day for drinking
plain tequila without salt
we left the main path and cut
through the thorns of primitive
religion making our way to
the churning river nature had left
us so many clues it was time
to leave fear behind time to
accept the burning of the Egyptian
desert the waters having been
parted already by force of mind.
Thanksgiving Sonnet
The stuffed shirt stands erect straw spilling
from empty hands thanks given for the morning’s
chill he wears a mask to hide his lack of feeling
painfully aware that this is a time of many
deaths both great and small crows flock
around his feet feeding on the excess seed
vultures swirl above locking their spirals into
thermal columns driving to such heights
as can be triggered by convection our ragged
mendicant believes in progress in the song
of the lark and the gut-scraping wail of violin
his lifeless days are filled with newspaper
and sentimentality once again he fails to cast
a shadow still fearful of the encroaching flame.
Nation Building
They rode through the night
on lame horses limping
at the speed of nation building
via tunnels once flooded
with the amber of maybe
someone rolled a pair of sixes
with the mysterious luck of
a drunken grandparent
stacked with wood and garnished
with the despair of penury
* * * * *
it was already too late when
they arrived at the airport
the last flight had left without
them somewhere in the south
was the sound of festivity
balloons released as appeasement
a military attaché appeared
performing the last rites of television
his empty gun a sad reminder
of the life that was to come.
Burning Landscape Sonnet
The middle class arrives searching for a better
school searching for a better life enveloped
in air conditioning they pay no mind to
the intensity of the heat the world translated into
a furnace where everything blazes a carcinogenic
squeal of blackened edges a pine forest
destroyed an ashen landscape interwoven
between the golf courses built on cemetery land
all corpses removed for mandatory cremation their
children blonde and almost naked beach brats
with futures set immune to failure never seeing
the coyotes who cross and recross the boardwalks
their eyes ablaze with the memory of a forest fire
the stench of burning trapped still in their nostrils.
Paul Ilechko is a Pushcart nominated poet who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Tampa Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Sleet Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. His first album, "Meeting Points", was released in 2021.
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