STORMS

  Storms break the silence of the day,

split the clouds and leave jagged edges,

throw thunderbolts like stones

skipping across pond water,

draw sheets of rain like curtains

over the windows.

 

Storms carry winds that ripple the torrents,

throw away all things disconnected,

howl at lightning channels that are hotter

            than the sun.

 

Storms break the surface of the day,

expose the raw breadth of light,

            the heavy weight of sound,

            and the endless depth of words,

                        knitted together out of bedlam,

                        before the skyline begins to clear,

                        wind spirals stop spinning,

                        and the silence of the day returns. 

 

©cmheuer, 11/2024

POLLEN ON THE LITTLE POND

 

Pollen grains float on the air;

green and yellow clouds

obscure and coat the landscape and water

in a haze of vague imagery

that unsettles the eyes’ mastery

of light and shadows.

 

They blockade the pond’s surface

          with strands of froth and sludge

                    that slowly move to the water’s edge

                             on wind drafts and water ripples.

 

Until there is a thick outline

          around a description of the surrounding trees

                    and a deep sky above. 

 

Until the pollen grains become embedded

          in the muddy sediment

                   where water meets field,

                             and millennia from now

                             core samples of earth

                                       will hold fossilized grains,

                                                 like dinosaur bones,

                                                          to let others know

                                    

                   What ancient flora

                           lived here in my time.

 

cmheuer©05/2024 

          

VANDALS

 

Too many kick down sand castles,

Stamp on towers and turrets,

Tear away curtain walls and battlements,

Drag their feet across mounds of sand,

Smirk and laugh, as they walk along

            the edge of the ocean.

 

Perhaps they do not see the builders,

Crouched along the shore

            with their buckets and shovels

Packing and sculpting sand into havens

For imaginations that see a world

Where builders outnumber vandals.

 

Where builders write, and

Ink is not smeared,

Paper is not torn, and

Centuries of truth building

Are not demolished. 

 

cmheuer©2/2024

 

Beethoven

 

The rains had soaked the fallen leaves and pine needles;

Birds and squirrels sat hushed on their feeders;

It was a quiet winter morning without any wind.

 

All had stopped as Beethoven’s sonatas played

To towering trees and their decayed leaf mounds,

To evergreens and unseen wild things, and

To patches of blue and grey sky

That appeared transfixed and devout,

As the notes completed their handwritten,

Penciled score from the depths

Of the mind of a man who would lose his hearing.

 

They all bowed as if in a prayer

To restore the music of the spheres,

While I read about war-torn countries

And the killing of their poets.

 

©cmheuer, 12/2023

AT A LOSS FOR WORDS

 

Words, untied from their moorings,

And cast adrift upon a meaningless sea,

 

Wind-tossed, wave-driven,

Empty hulls that heave in rough waters,

Sail into cyclones and jet streams,

Crash onto rocky clifts, wash up on sandy beaches,

 

Disconnected, senseless,

Bandied about in mass deceit and manipulation,

Empty husks of sounds floating around,

One voice to another,

until

Nothing is known,

          and

All are speechless.

 

©cmheuer, November, 2023

 

A BLIGHT

 

 

An ancient oak, larger than life,

          Added a new ring each year that I grew;

          its branches stretched

                    higher and wider than

                   my near-sighted eyes could see. 

 

Its summer canopy kept me cool.

Its fall acorns fed pigs and squirrels.

Its history lay hidden under

          thick layers of bark. 

 

Its roots spread onto the dirt road,

          as if it could travel, too,

          keeping our stories in its ring cycles.

 

Then standing without new leaves,

          with branches breaking,

 

Falling before me.

 

©cmheuer, 7/2023

VERNAL EQUINOX

 

Light is different now,

          not just that the day is as long as the night,

          but that it strikes head on

          instead of arriving at an angle.

 

It has a new clarity,

washes off blurred beginnings,

creates a sharp focus,

exposes cherry blossoms destroyed

by a night’s deep freeze,

          highlights bird and squirrel feeding frenzies,

          unveils the forest floor bare of underbrush,

          warms the beech trees’ tawny leaves

                   still branched and shifting

in the wind before

they fall.

 

It stretches out the length of the trees

                   to greet the stars,

          sheds images of small spaces,

peers into deep wells of mystery

that surrounded long nights,

          uncovers what we can know,

                   all the way back to the beginning

of the first light.

 

 

©cmheuer, 3/2023