JC Sulzenko’s Line-a-day Poem

This is the blog form of the original composition. You may also read it as a list on one page.

  • A matter of choice? Instinct?

  • Does ‘mother’ leave first?

  • Her example, how to fly,

  • easy to follow

  • to shelter in junipers

  • among silver-green berries.

  • In 9 a.m. sun,

  • the adult, two juveniles

  • nest in a huddle.

  • At 10:00, the next scene: silent,

  • without audience. They’re gone.

  • Pose the question well.

  • If a tree falls in the wood,

  • and no one is there,

  • does that make a sound or not?

  • A philosopher’s puzzle.

  • The wings of three doves

  • would whistle in taking flight.

  • Were they frightened off?

  • Could young pinions lift them?

  • Did they fall if no one saw?

  • Lightning, a rainbow

  • in the same yardage of sky.

  • A sash of weathers

  • that warp the weaver’s pattern,

  • disguise the clothes of a storm.

  • She should have been warned:

  • one theft begets another.

  • How not to be caught?

  • Confidence, experience

  • cloaked her, blindfolded her eyes.

  • They met in a song.

  • Seduction, its melody

  • with rhythmic refrain,

  • overrode their histories,

  • stole for them an anthem: “we.”

  • For ten years, plus two,

  • that theft, remembered only

  • as an air to hum

  • till he no longer recalls

  • many words, some of the tune.

  • She should have been warned.

  • One theft begets another.

  • Memories like lace:

  • tatting, a pattern of holes,

  • shroud him, steal him from her.

  • What she needs from him:

  • she tells him, she shows him what.

  • He never asked her,

  • so doesn’t listen or hear.

  • Perhaps has forgotten how.

  • Memory, fleeting

  • or omnipresent, overlaid

  • with images from hell.

  • Fear, hate: skyline ghosts scrape heights,

  • imprint on eyes that still weep.

  • From her low deckchair

  • she sees only shoes and legs.

  • Plum painted toe-nails,

  • bronze sandals, hiking boots,

  • sneakers, heels, red ballet flats.

  • Trunks block her sight-lines;

  • a grove of stooped backs, straight spines

  • screen the stage from her.

  • She hears the addaggio,

  • sees a plane, white on sky blue.

  • Listens for her fears.

  • Their refrain cannot compete

  • with this assembly.

  • Minds, hearts tuned to melody,

  • as leaves turn toward the sun.

  • A dawn of anger

  • caught by juniper branches,

  • twisting and tossing.

  • Waves, wind in conspiracy.

  • To dream? Impossible now.

  • Guests at the table

  • no longer call to their gods.

  • Their prayers, secular,

  • presume a role at centre stage,

  • dream of ruling the cosmos.

  • Folly, such folly.

  • Like the emperor’s fine clothes,

  • less than gossamer:

  • their substance, significance —

  • ephemeral as a breath.

  • Water, gravity

  • in a taught conspiracy

  • with bedrock and shale:

  • distilled words, drawn down, down, down,

  • find their voices at the core.

  • Torrent or trickle?

  • Forging canyons in the mind,

  • following fissures,

  • impurities in the flow

  • filtered with each narrowing.

  • Is the way easy?

  • Does she, like water, follow

  • courses ready-made

  • where gravity enables