Five Poems by Cleo Griffith

 

 

 

Climate Control 

 

Wildest summer heat 

makes me thankful 

for modern times, 

as do days of cold north winds, 

but not even furnaces 

can balance 

the climates of relationships. 

 

As March days 

can turn Winter/Spring/Winter 

so too can friend turn friend/foe/friend. 

The question then remains: 

To trust again the spring 

of warmth and smiles, 

when still the winter frost 

remains on our minds? 

Modern times have not solved 

the age-old anguish. There is 

no machine to adjust our emotions. 

 

We trust and are warm  

within our hearts, 

unscathed by others, 

because we can. 

 

 

 

 

So Many Warnings 

 

So many warnings 

surround my leave-taking, 

my move and my absence, 

my imminent forsaking. 

 

It is not so much leaving 

as it is expanding, 

letting go of the tree, 

flying then landing 

 

in a new place with chances 

to grow into a “me” 

I only imagine, 

think what might be: 

 

so much to study, 

to learn who I am, 

what I become: 

lion or lamb. 

 

The vista’s exciting, 

your warnings I hear, 

I shall return when 

I know why I’m here. 

 

 

 

 

Tin Man  

 

Ah, so now I find you are not 

my soulmate for all time, 

as I so wished, 

not my silver knight, 

more aluminum, slight, 

no poet of fine words, 

no singer of lover’s themes… 

just another adventure 

on my long path 

in this old world. 

 

I should not miss you, 

I do, but tomorrow will 

erase you, with a sigh. 

Tears may moisten my eye, 

I’ll survive. Even thrive. 

 

So, you are not my sun  

and moon and stars, 

you’re not the first 

to fail the course, 

I’ll mark the breakup  

as another lesson learned, 

perhaps someday realize 

why we didn’t glide through life 

together. 

 

Farewell, goodbye, 

I’ll forget your name 

ten years from now. 

Perhaps. 

Or twenty. 

 

 

 

  

Up Further, the Straight Curve 

 

Up further down the road 

beyond the curve that goes straight for miles 

is the town that isn’t and never will be 

‘til the oceans dry and moon explodes 

 

for it’s over that hill that the wolf must flee 

from the chicken who seeks him as dinner delight, 

only the mirrors on the paths beneath 

prevent this backward delicacy, 

 

and trees grow weird, roots reach for pink sky 

in this land up further down a strange road 

all because of a twist of a tongue 

that sent the world all awry. 

 

 

 

 

Where I Stand 

 

When I say I am most important, 

I only mean it is all I can control. 

Where I stand in this dimension 

is mapped by my own mind, no one else’s. 

Who I am depends on the person who is asked, 

and I’m the only one who truly knows 

why my actions pull against the grain 

and sometimes test the verbs I most expound. 

Where I end – the question goes unanswered, 

for still I walk and talk the earth. 

I’m me and inhabit this frail body, 

of most importance to this mind within my skull. 

I love the rest of you out there, 

remind you: love yourselves, keep strong, 

keep your controls and honour your sweet souls. 

What comes next I cannot tell you, 

but when I find out,  

I’ll try to let you know 

all the answers.

Cleo Griffith has been widely published and lives in Salida, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Wild Roof Journal, Main Street Rag and Blue Collar Review. She has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin since its inception in 2003.