MILKWEED PODS

Dazzling arrays of spidery floss,

     Light, but shielded,

     Hollow and waxed filaments,

Capped off at one end with dark seeds,

Spill out of slits in dry, fibrous hulls

                    Covered humbly in small spicules,

On the outside,

Soft splinters are airbrushed  

into rough coatings for

Smooth waxed insides where

Gossamer threads are spun

Into simple wings to sail upon fall winds

And float among rain drops to moist soils.

And the pale green pods, dried into brown shells,
           Held by shriveled veins with graceful

                       Curves and twisted knots

                               hang aloft on plant stems 
                                    next to leftover leaves.

An unacknowledged beauty

Overridden by delicate winged seeds that

drift among hay field grasses

To bear milkweed for the monarchs.

© cmheuer, 12/2019

UNWOUND

Wound up tin toys.
A row of ducks, a ladybug, a locomotive.
Set upon a bare wood floor

With whirrs and clicks

To run for preset times.

Wound up music boxes and carousels.

Ballerinas and horses

In predetermined spins

Set in time to the music’s meter.

Wound up spheres swirl

In predestined eddies and gyres.

Collide, explode, and devour.

Unwound, the die is cast.

Fate is sealed.

A row of ducks, a ladybug, a locomotive

Sit upon a vacuous plane

Unseen and unheard.

©cmheuer, October, 2019

BEAR SIGHTING

A windbreak of trees, thick with leaves,

In the light bending heat of summer,

Obscures what ambles along a gravel path

Beside the mowed, lime green field;

Blots out all but small, murky shadows

Of an unfamiliar shape that slinks

In and out of sight as it passes by

The gaps between the trees.

Shuffled, the broken shades resemble a

Prehistoric four-legged animal drawn on paper,

Fleshed out skeleton fossil,

An animated movie character walking across

A Jurassic Park stage set in

A triumphant return to nature’s

Wood-cleared paths.

Ambling in and out of sight before

My brown eyes can connect a shadow and an image,

Before my mind can remember a similar shape and size,

Before my mind can assign a name and a set of memories,

My ears perk up and my eyes stop blinking,

Engulfed with alarm and curiosity, motionless,

As squirrels and birds freeze soundless.

A photobomb near the end of the day,

Meekly clearing the windbreak and

Standing on all fours, headed for a garden,

Not Faulkner’s Old Ben, not a legend,

Not a child’s story bear,

Nor a dancing circus bear,

But a bear, nonetheless,

Wandering down from the mountains.

©cmheuer, 2019

THE DOLDRUMS

The leaves look rigid,

without the slight brush of a bird’s wings,

the squirrel’s dash across the limb,

or any breath of air to set things in motion.

Sculpted in place by a lack of wind,

stranded high above the earth’s reach

on branches and twigs with only
the chance of a steady, airborne course

navigated by the tree’s thin arms.

Like a flotilla stranded aloft,

stagnant in stale, upper echelons,

haunted by memories of rugged twists and turns,

of hair-raising dips and roundabouts, and

of romantic two-steps on a dance floor.

Tranquility seems ominous and unnatural

for living things, left afloat in the heat of the day,

stalled with eyes cast towards the horizon

watching for a sudden storm as if clear skies

and calm seas breed the worst of beasts.

Rather than moments of imagination

carved out of wood and set upon a wave

to mark the days of an ancient being,

side-stepped and deserted, on its rushed,

final journey to a rocky shore.

©cmheuer, 2019 

SUN LIGHT

When the early morning sun makes squares of yellow on the dormer wall

with window grille outlines like Mondrian compositions.

When shafts of gold appear across the room casting dark silhouettes

of lamp shades and paintings.

When streams of saffron flow across door frames, book cases,

and the wooden floor.

The night hours end and dreams disconnect in sudden storms of light

that end a nightmare’s racing heart.

The promise of a gilded day calls out like a siren’s song

          to an untethered mind.

The first step into the molten glow inflames an awkward stance

          and feels like a Midas touch.

Then the sun dial begins its sweep of rooms from east to west

          and bathes hidden spaces with radiant light.

Then the shadows declare pursuit, stretch out beyond

          their normal reach, and wreck in shallow waves.

Then the golden touch falters leaving each book without a word

          and each frame without a painting. 

©cmheuer, April, 2019

WINTRY MIX

Winter slush prints

boot bottoms, deer and bird tracks, and squirrel feet

on top of the earth;

water, ice, snow, sleet become

wet inked and plaster cast soles and hooves that

leave mud-like depressions

of ambulatory relics that won’t be baked in a desert or

frozen in permafrost

to create twenty-first century fossils.

The earth will absorb them

like it consumes the weight of

most travelers whose tracks

crisscross at different times and places

without a common origin or destination

appearing like Brownian motion

on top of the earth’s surface

as the cold air’s tentacled hold

on water’s freezing states breaks

and releases the winter’s ground covers. 

The steps cannot be retraced;

trips across the field or along the wood line are lost;

scampering steps to the nearest tree disappear;

foraging steps before an instant ascent to flight vanish;

and break-neck runs for the wood’s camouflage colors

melt away.

Each step is written over,

layers of steps lost

as each new script is added;

the old is absorbed into the fibers of the document

and cannot be recovered

as soon as a new text is scrawled across

that earthen page.   

©cmheuer, February, 2019

THE MEAN SPIRITED

There were times when the mean spirited were scattered.

A few rotten apples in a barrel.  A villain or two in a novel.

There were times when the mean spirited swarmed,

Historical eras when the vicious prevailed, and

Plagues of violence descended like locusts,

Infecting the lemmings,

Suffocating the benevolent.

There were times when the mean spirited

Were cast as contemptible,

Their sinister intent indisputable,

Their infamous fate predetermined and sealed.

Now the mean spirited are double-sided;

Jekylls and Hydes cruise around,

Feign a spirit of good will,

Hide combative ferocity and devious intent,

Until scapegoats are found.

Then they change faces and build their ranks

By slithering into the hearts of unsuspecting hosts,

By taking over the discourse, they misrepresent and destroy.

Flaunt their villainy and laugh

Because they know it all,

Because they see pride in cruel, deceitful artistry,

Because they see pride in a con achieved.

They search for reasons to hate, for excuses to bully,

     any variation, a tone of voice, verbal offenses

     become elaborate narratives sold as believable,

     woven without fear of reprisal,

     built to make suffering a sport,

     selected to ensure their quarries

     are taken down with single shots.

Who will search out these villainous scourges?

Destined to appear again today and tomorrow,

Who will protect the scapegoats?

Where are the staunch defenders?

Where is a mirror that will reflect

The bully undisguised?

©cmheuer, January, 2019