3 Robins
in a bush
Murder of Crows
On the roof
In search
Of water
In search
Of food
Winter’s
Here
Hunger
Soon
Author: Makar
Stephen Sutherlin is a designer, poet and musician. He writes poetry about life in the southwest and enjoys metrical lyricism.
You fall (asleep);
You call
“My Rings”
You sit straight up
And do the
Hypnic Jerk
The floor gone
An elevator on
With only one
Dropping
Motion
You flail
And crick your neck
Wiplash as
You do the
Hypnic Jerk
Cliffside
Sure you’ll die
You fall awake
Strain at the ache
Of sudden
Consciousness–
You object and
Represent the 70%
Who do the
Hypnic Jerk
The old man sits
His accomplishments
In his lap
A bag of
Memories and triumphs
Moments and epiphanies
He is alone
Now, sometimes unable to
Make sense of the bundle
He opens it
Rummages for one
To abate his longing
No longer relevant
All of his virile impressions
Are now gathered here
A wish to silence
The depression, the anger
With one last victory
And, if some passerby
May find him here
He would always share
For the stories
Of these deeds
Were all he has left
…to give…
Logs don’t lie
They burn
Or they lay still
Awaiting combustion or some
Shape made useful by the knife.
Its life knows first the tree
Then the use at least to fall
Back into soil for the next generation.
But, burn it must
To kindle inspiration for
What greater things we can create.
The power of industry
To Cook
To Forge
To Kiln —
The fire burns in the human spirit
Raging for us
To free ourselves
From the blue light
Of the black box
That consumes
Our waking moments.
Two Woodpeckers
Came by today
For food
And water
Spangled with white stars
and red stripes
They chased off
Red-hooded finches
And Chestnut-colored sparrows
To get the best peck
At the suet and the seed
–They comfort me–
Ambitious!
Certain.
Categories
Honey
Waking
My consciousness comes
In globs of Honey
Amber capsules
Holding the
Last vestiges of my dreams
Dropped and drawn
Into the moments
Of what the day may bring
Interspersed
With darkness–
With sleep…
The bending on a
Dali Clock
Stilled and stopped
Time travel
before it
Begins again
–at 7:10
The full blue moon set
This morning on Hallow’s Day
A Day for Dead
To be remembered
Alters built
For friends and pets
Family, loved ones
These ancestors we’ve kept
In tales of remembrance.
The power of the story
To recall the spirit
Of our cherished gone.
We long
For resurrection!
And within
These brief moments
They are here
— With us.
Categories
Piles
The withering leaves
Holding on to the green
As they struggle
Laden with
Snow to control
The last moments
Of their living existence
Short the distance
To the ground
Where they will soon
Be piled up
Into fond
Childhood Memories
Another year has passed
And Autumn comes again
at last
To usher in memories
of my poetic dreams
I’ve stalled time and again this year
Not completing themes I fear
Lost my way in the anger
Of the body politic, a danger
To my own mental peace of mind
In due time perhaps I will find
My way back home to discover
The fruits of Garden Psalms, a labor
To harvest fruits much greater
Than the hatred that blooms
A simpler time I pine for
Where neighbors still knock at the door
To share their lives and times
before the Covid grind where
Hate and isolation define
This once tolerable nation.
The Fall Casts
False shadows
That last
A little longer
Than the one before
And
At the
Door
Knocks Autumn
But
You’re still dressed for Summer
And you’ll catch the death
of cold
“Don’t cha know?”
Yet she still shows
her flowers
Burgeoning
after showers
Surging in the morning light
Yes, Autumn bright and
warm in
the afternoon
of our farewells
(to Summer).