Convergence
My eyes follow rolling arms
Camouflaged by green truth
Of insignificance which
When buried becomes
Greener still while we
Try to kill ourselves
Unwittingly with progress.
The convergence of desire
And design paralyzed
Infinity and light delineates
The veins of leaves, water,
Minerals, men-- until
We alone, naked, basking
On the precipice of beautiful death who
Welcomes us like a
Valley by a lake, on
Whose banks grow grapes
For wine and flowers
Forgiving our foolish notion--
Cutting through a world
To make here and there
Closer.
the pinnacle of touch
If the pinnacle of touch
Is what to be won
And we are lonely, posing as teams
The confidence of others behind us
Then individually, you and I
Must lose
And parts of us we pray
The neverforgetfulness
Of colder feet than yours
Combined,
The near compliment of knees
Slowly sliding,
Trying to be locked with
Each other, but
Frightened.
Yet the too narrow space which bodies complete
Leaves little room for the closure of thought
Only obscure openings,
Like winding country roads, to get lost on.
(and getting lost is easy)
we could believe that candle flickerings,
shadows, and words trapped on pages
will lead us home to the
warm familiar, but
truth is a guide if home is
the where and what we yearn,
and peace is the
who we want to be.
[Beware: your hand will harm the other]
Beware: your hand will harm the other
Before kindness and mercy shape the air
Into a wrinkled room muttering to its windows.
We are hunting black secrets; freight cars approach
Heavy with wood for matchsticks, and we stop
To salute our cruelty, pulpy and fat.
My father, gravity, heard the rumour of my death,
Went into his room intending to hide
Pretending the shape of inception.
Cheap pens lined paper recalled
The mud and clay sculpted by war
Without memory of a forest or stone
Who would burn their tongues for love?
The beautiful hand that holds the trigger
Chooses honest whimsy over thought
And folds the map it left for you.
To Touch and Cradle
I have been waiting
For you to seep into
The porous springtime ground
And dance yourself
Through veins of leaves
So that standing here
Talking with the ash
And oak is not so strange
To a passerby
Who subtly moves
From trodden path
To ridge and root exposed.
They too, will speak
Cry with their past
No one but memory
Or death is hiding
In the bark of birch
The maple sap.
Tenuously they’ll question why
God is quick
To touch and cradle.
They will perambulate among
The trunks, whispering names
Softly stifling acquiescence,
Calling to trees
In forest or meadow
As lost children might their mothers.
When no one is found
We lean against those ghosts
Who patiently wait
For words of grace or apology.
The Heather of Cuillen
They say she was born with stones in her stomach
Curious doctors surrounding her bed
Scratching their beards and the vellum between
Witchcraft and gods, the innocent and dead.
But sometimes midwives are not be trusted
Nor neighbours or friends, nor philosophers.
Quietly my sister cooed and smiled
While confounding sagacious astrologers.
For stones in the stomach puzzle some folk
Learned and losing their gossamer eyes.
But when mothers know best who know of the earth
Despite scruples of men and their unwitting lies.
And when no one could find a past precedent
For keeping my sister caged in a room
Nurses all gathered and danced with her fingers
But cried for those stones building her tomb.
Up grew my sister named after the heather
A flowing veneer, wind-waving serene
Lovely and lithe few knew of her secret
Of pebbles inside growing unseen.
She dreamed of flying, kissing the stars
Or painting the sky violet and gold.
Caprice became torture if uttered aloud
So Heather spoke little of things bright or bold.
Clouds darkened and jibed my sister’s dismay
Stars pined for her lips and I for her joy.
Our mother sang smiles into her heart
Heather, I feared those rocks would destroy.
So mother and I confused like the spring
Wondered aloud of our poor Heather’s fate.
We sang silver taffeta around the clouds
Moved to the Highlands, danced at their gate.
Long ago did those doctors join memory
And the nurses forget stones in a girl.
Meteors, I feared, might taunt Heather’s dream
And the sparkling sky instead would unfurl.
But Heaven will beckon those who are free
Unencumbered or not, by a belly of rocks
Heather weighted with wonder, laughingly played
Joining her name and the comets and clocks.
Suddenly stones in her whispered then sang
From forth, her stomach, erupted such joy
Now pebbles were mountains, her smile the sea
Thus I stood on Cuillin, a brother, a boy.
The cliffs of Cuillen slept in the clouds
Her peak kissed the stars in transparent night.
Heather lay waving, no stones in her stomach
And no longer a girl, but a lavender light.
Chris Cummins lives outside Buffalo, New York and teaches high school English, creative writing and drama. In addition, he directs plays and musicals and teaches in a film academy, a multi-faced learning experience which includes script-writing, acting and video editing. Although his most recent work focused on the writing and production of two locally performed musicals, his first writing love is poetry. He’s been featured in the Buffalo News, Heduan Review, Book of Matches, Literary Heist, Goose River Press and other small presses.
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