Wooden Head, By Christopher Hileman

Wooden Head
by Christopher Hileman

I wanted to be
a real boy way back then
and got my damn wish.
I fell for you hard,
skinned in seventeen places
scabbed and sore, torn up.
Had I stayed in wood
there would have been bashed edges
and splintered corners
but no bloody skin –
you ran from me just the same.
You grabbed my heart, tore
it out of my chest
and it shattered as if wood
into twelve pieces.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

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Before We Left For California, by Christopher Hileman

Before We Left For California
by Christopher Hileman

The sounds of your hands
on the pots, on the wide pans
tell me supper’s near
and that’s a good thing
I think, and so does the dog.
The cat’s as always
aloof and even
haughty as if she cares not
at all but the bird
count is up lately.
We know she will dine with us.

So I grab your ass,
slide up to the small
of your back with my right hand,
fingers widely spread,
and with my left, take
you to me, whirling as if
we cannot collide
with the rest of it,
all the financials that suck
the life out of us.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Misdirection, by Dah

Misdirection
By Dah

Sometimes the gray sun
is like dry rain
other times an old bone

Sometimes there is a whisper
from the inner-ear, a drag
of words announcing a profusion
of discontent

There are times I wear sadness
like deep sleep
so rising into the day
creates a storm that places its mouth
over my ears
and blows cold wind
to produce a melodramatic silence

Some days I hold tightly
to the quiet that surrounds me
and listen to the dead
for they have much to say
about unfinished lives

Beneath the fog’s tarp
the moisture is a wet parachute
undulating in the air
and the light’s eye
has rolled back into its skull

Sometimes I ask out loud
What is the point?
but my thoughts are
discombobulated, misdirected

and I wait for a voice to answer
but there are so many
that I cannot separate them
yet, somebody inside knows who I am
and keeps laughing and laughing

Dah is the author of three books of poetry from Stillpoint Books. His fourth book, The Translator, will be published by Transcendent Zero Press in the summer of 2015. Dah lives in Berkeley, California, and is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth poetry collections. He blogs at Words Of Dahlusion.

Small Bird, by Dah

Small Bird
By Dah

Snow scatters the ground

In a field of ice
a small bird’s frozen corpse

What else can be said about
a dead bird
I love you and I am sorry?

In this cold
hands are useless

In this cold
death’s precise exhale

Make a note of this on a yellow Post-it
stick it to a mirror

then look away

you are gone

Dah is the author of three books of poetry from Stillpoint Books. His fourth book, The Translator, will be published by Transcendent Zero Press in the summer of 2015. Dah lives in Berkeley, California, and is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth poetry collections. He blogs at Words Of Dahlusion.

Chair, by Dah

Chair
By Dah

Sunlight swells into buildings
rolls over my feet
gets trapped under my soles
and at this moment
there is nothing more to say

When you rose to leave
your skirt
made the sound of a bird
caught in my hands

In the distance your silhouette
dark, then gray, then
birds landing on a statue
make the sound of your skirt leaving

Overhead a low jet noise
I say something
but cannot hear myself
and across the table
your chair
is the emptiness left behind

Dah is the author of three books of poetry from Stillpoint Books. His fourth book, The Translator, will be published by Transcendent Zero Press in the summer of 2015. Dah lives in Berkeley, California, and is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth poetry collections. He blogs at Words Of Dahlusion.

Mantle, by Richard Walker

mantle
by Richard Walker

I’d be strong,
I’d save people,

But there would be times
when I’d fly just to be alone

My cape flapping gently
in the stratosphere

Above the clouds
above the noise

Quiet and stillness
just for me

So I could go back
and continue to be strong

Process notes: This poem was inspired by a prompt from Poetic Bloomings: “and sometimes I wear a cape.” This is my take on what introversion might look like in a super hero.

Richard Walker is a teacher in a public elementary school in the San Francisco Bay Area; this is his calling and vocation. He writes poems and novels; that also is a calling, his avocation. He blogs at Sadly Waiting for Recess.