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Featured Poet: Duane Ackerson
Wind Warning
The wind blows the faces off the statues in the park
and leaves the faces of heroes on custard pies
in the cafe across the street.
The wind turns the faces of pedestrians
slightly askew;
the wind sends the words askew
and, even inside, messages sneak out the door
before they reach any ears.
The wind wipes the fingerprints off our hands
and everything we touch:
no man, no woman here in the wind owns anything.
And now:
the wind tugs at these words on the paper:
by the time you read this poem
it may not be
here.
An earlier, different version of the poem above appeared in Arts in Society.
Catching My Breath
It reaches the end of its tether
and escapes.
I try to go after it
but hardly have the heart.
At last gasp,
I get it back,
but it's grown too large,
freed from the cage of ribs,
to fit inside again.
I may have to go through life
breathless.
Eventually, The Wind Unwinds
And hereby hangs the yarn.
It unravels as it goes,
leaving a trail behind
and less and less
of itself ahead.
Finally, it grows so small
a yawn engulfs it;
not even the tail of a mouse mutter is left.
There is no light
at the end of this tunnel,
not even the canary
that swallowed the coal mine
will go for it.
Digital Watches
are full of fast-flying fingers
trying to sort hours, minutes, seconds,
days of the week
and dates of the month.
When a digital watch no longer can tell time,
its sign language stopped,
we consign it to some graveyard
where the phantom fingers
fade from sight,
gravestones slowly sinking into night.
The Museum of Dubious Sounds
Here, at last,
you can find
the sound of one hand clapping
(which garners a lot of applause)
and of the tree that fell in the forest
when no one was listening.
In one case,
kept refrigerated to preserve them forever,
are those words that left your lips
at a particularly cold moment.
They lie there in a blue tangle.
You've asked for them back,
but were only greeted
with the sound of silence.
Geography: Eastern Oregon
Such a small town
even the tumbleweeds had names.
At the Shore
Here, time stands still
while the wind and waves
pile up sand,
devouring hourglasses
by the thousands.
The Honesty of Mirrors
They never avoid your eyes.
But do you trust them?
Mirrors: Three Glances
Holes for the ego.
Watering holes for the ego.
Dry watering holes for the ego.
Negative Space
When birds descend
they leave gaps in the sky
as hard for us to pick up on
as those crumbs they seem to peck
out of the sidewalk in front of a bakery
where we pull dark strands of coffee
through the holes in cups to go.
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