MIDNIGHT

At the stroke of midnight

One day slips beneath the next;

Clock sounds rumble from a

Subduction zone where the crust of time

Descends into a molten past;

Percussion waves reverberate in the dark,

Move across folded minds,

Shake out the sun-built edifices, and

Crumble their brick and mortar walls.

When all are flat and dark,

When all are scrambled,

When all are broken,

Survivors crawl out of the rubble,

Heave up to the surface in desperate bursts,

Like deep sea divers who rise and float

Briefly among the debris,

Before they hobble across the land,

Turn back to see the extinguished,

Plod through the uproar and gather round

For the break of day.   

© cmheuer, 2014 

PHOTOGRAPH IT

Perhaps a spirit has been stolen when the shutter snaps

Taking a split second of light and freezing it on a flat surface;

Even if it is a scene and not a portrait,

Ariel, imprisoned in a tree, was freed.

Thus a spirit is engraved and exposed

To my eye, as a memory is to my mind,

Point of view and visage, stage and curtain,

Intercepted and pinned,

Like butterflies caught in a net,

Like words held to a page,

Each fleet-footed spark

Catches fire and burns away

The lost and unseen ashes

From which the image can rise again

From the depths of light. 

© cmheuer, 2014

SEASHELLS

Buried in sand, our toes divine them like a water stick,

Surf-polished exoskeletons, four layers deep,

Sculpted in whorls and terraces when the

Ocean floods and wind-dragged waves

Dash back to the sea.

Bones wash ashore,

Lie disguised by grace of form;

Such outer shells, like pearls,

Conjure up thieves of ocean scraps,

Bait our steps along the shore,

Surround our eyes

With structural remains

In a low-tidal charnel house

Left adrift before an open sky and dune of clouds.

Relics sift out,

Like fossils unearthed and prized,

For a history of carrion,

Whose rigid shapes are borne upon their backs

And set upon display,

While our hidden bones are

Buried earthen deep and

Marked with name on stone.

© cmheuer, 2014

BRANCHES AND TWIGS

The annual shearing of the trees in temperate zones

Coincides with cold winds and long nights,

Synchronizes with axis tilt and color changes, and

Staggers the fallout across the breadth of days.

Tentacled trunks, stripped lean and spare,

Proffer their leafy harvest in a cyclic exchange of

Quid pro quo with the earthen underground table and

Stretch their branches and twigs in a yawn upon awakening, 

From a deep sleep beneath the leaves’ thick cover.

Deciduous trees throw off their spring and summer spawn;

Layered and woven by wind and rain, the dark russet

Blanket slips and falls across the soil’s girth.

And from every tower grown upwards in the search for a sun

Beyond an earth-bound reach, each branch and twig

Is another intention sprouted, a slightly different decision

Born at an angle from the others and joined

In a circular maze upon the breached air.

Their stark ambition exposed in the harsh winter months

Their suppliant offerings refused and fallen,

Their lined palms extended in a bow to the cold winds.

© cmheuer, 2014

GATHERING CLOUDS

Huddled against the wall of a back room

Where the oaks’ large limbs couldn’t fall,

Knees drawn up and held with clasped hands,

Fuses pulled from the breaker box, antenna disconnected,

Wind-whipped clothes pulled off the line, damp and unfolded,

As gathering clouds blotted out the light.

Silently they watched through the window;

Early winds billowed the voile curtains,

Stirred the over-heated room like hand-held fans.

Rain drops hit the screen and in a spitting flash of light,

A tear in the fabric appeared,

The foundation of the house shook,

Windows gasped,

And dark clouds descended like swarms of locusts.

Eyes and ears are covered with trembling hands,

As glaciers calve and melt, seashores submerge,

Oceans bear oil slicks and plastic islands,

And elephants and lions disappear,

Those who speak or write of it are not heard or read

In the thundering clouds.

© cmheuer, 2014  

HEADWINDS

Tall pines are rarely still, even in quiet sunlight

The highest needles sway while the lower branches and

Trunks balance out the motion with horizontal and vertical calm.

A recognition of upper winds travels through veins,

Knowledge being a tree’s birthright,

Headwinds forewarn a gale, counter the normal easy passage of

Air through the conifers’ slender fingers,

Create the power to bend and twist each branch

Caught up in an invisible brawn.

There is a line between a breeze and a tempest,

Like a spider’s first thread cast as an anchor in the wind,

To forge a way across the silence to the loudest torrent of air and water-

Fierce, rapid drumming against the ear. 

Predator wind, vine-wrapped around the trees, 

Flashing air split in search of the tallest

Trunks in a thundered clash, tangled arms broken,

Bark stripped from top to base in a wide swath

And threaded back into soil.

© cmheuer, 2013

MACHINES

Assembled moving parts work a certain way,

Carve into time like notched wheels of old watches,

Insert themselves in a room or a landscape

As naturally as overgrown weeds in a garden

Untended at the end of a season and

Left to winter’s slow erasure.

Hollow vibrations drown out nature’s warning calls,

Create a language of background noise

Overhead in a field of clover,

Fading along the railroad tracks or a country road,

Above the wind’s howl the engines drone and

Pale blue lights sweep every space, indoor and out--

Surround sound and backlit screens multiply,

Seep into every corner and every hand and eye--

A flood of energy moves and heats the air,

Stores sound and light,

Replaces mind, hands and feet,

Becomes as obsolete as wasted muscle and bone

Fails, in the dark of night,

Machines echo off walls and faces stare

Before the sudden sharp plastic metal twist

And there is nothing but silence in the air.

© cmheuer, 2013