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

WEATHER VANE

A chicken, four compass points, and an arrow

Placed on the peak of a second-story roof

Said little about the wind--

Just its direction--

Nothing more than a useless ornament,

Someone noted and looked away.

Until one day it fell to the ground in a high wind,

Toppled from its hundred-year-old perch

Without ceremony or ritual.

Tossed to the back of an old chicken house,

Among galvanized chicken feeders,

Nothing more than a discarded relic,

Someone noted and closed the old wooden doors

To the brooder where baby chickens had been raised.

I kept looking up for the old weather vane

As if it were a bad habit that I couldn’t break,

My eyes scanning the roof line without seeing

The wind’s direction among compass point letters,

Without seeing the motion of the arrow.

There was only an empty space

Below the twisted oak leaves.

Where the weather vane had been,

There was no direction,

No magnetic north,

No compass,

And the sun was covered

By dark wind clouds that

Made clocks run back and forth

Arrowless,

Chaos shook the window panes of the house

And rain shuttered the glass

Until I could bear it no longer

And set out for the chicken house

Drenched and blinded

To search for the old weather vane

Thrown into a dark corner,

Useless and bent,

Rusted and shabby,

I carried it to a metal worker,

Who restored each part

And ascended a ladder to install

It back on the roof peak beneath the tree leaves,

Where it makes sense of the wind and

Its breathless motion. 

© cmheuer, 2018

VANQUISH HATE

Vanquish hate.

Capture every last word of it

Before it escapes on loathsome breaths.

Scramble its deceitful messages

Until they cannot be heard or read.

Words exist that have no venom.

Rescue them!

Save them from angry slogans,

From loaded guns and malignant lies.

Give these quiet words air to breathe.

And they will rise again

On the haunted breaths of fallen voices.

They will drown out the diabolic hiss

And emerge anew bearing

Light and reason.

©cmheuer, 2018

MYTHIC GRANDMOTHERS

Their stories were told around dinner tables,

Under trees in backyards as busy hands

Shucked corn or shelled butter beans.

Anecdotes grew into short narratives

And into life lines drawn across generations,

Myths carried by word of mouth

As if sung in epic poems.

One birthed twelve children with nine surviving;

All nine said she always smiled.

A hand-colored photo was taken by a photographer,

Traveling from house to house.

She sat on a bench in a purple dress with a lace collar;

her husband stood behind her. 

She looked at the photographer. 

Her husband looked at her. 

It hung over a fireplace

Long after their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

One was photographed for her wedding.

She and her husband stared at the photographer.

Her high-necked lace gown was kept in a closet. 

A large hand-colored portrait of her was taken in a studio.

She sat on a high-backed chair

In a dark green dress holding a red rose.

One nursed her children through diphtheria.

One starved and gave what food she had to her son.

One had a house full of laughter and hand-me-downs,

Depression era rations, home-made fudge,

And macaroni with cheese and tomatoes.

One traveled on a boat across the Atlantic with her only child.

Pneumonia and starvation were their companions.

Her husband--killed in the first world war. 

One made baby beds out of empty cigar boxes

Lined with white lace and pink flannel,

For little girls who called her Nannie.

One didn’t know she would have grandchildren.

One died at 83.

One died at 34 bringing her son to Ellis Island;

Some said she was buried at sea;

Some said she was buried on land.

One rests forever beside her husband.

One was lost and found

Almost a century later. 

State of New York

Department of Health of the City of New York

Bureau of Records

Standard Certificate of Death.

The name of the cemetery listed.

©cmheuer, 2018