Telling Stories [Novadic poem-image exchange]

This is my response to Kerry, but more fittingly a response to [Paul's] sending those photos. So a slideshow, of a sort, in return. Thanks for sending me back to Boston and the Cape. - Chris

​[Poem by Chris Moylan. Photos by Paul McLean (ca. 1984).]

Telling Stories

The coast was late in arriving

For that sudden sunset,

so we invented a new far away,

beautiful, well preserved,

like a bible newly translated

from a long winter’s sleep.

 

Last Breaths

What did we expect? a paper

airplane gliding like a gloved

finger over dust…a conclusion

comforting, almost inaudible

amidst the date palms

And ghosts in the varnish…

 

Anticipation

Sadness so evening kitchen,

so dirty dishes and ice chips,

so twist-off  bottle of Ginger Ale…

clouds gathering kindling

from what’s left of the treeline

to burn what’s left of sleep…

Regrets and disappointments…

Everything addled, a bit

Off kilter, too bright, and

too dark at the same time…

All the windows thrown open,

Flocks of heron, egrets come through.

 

Crosswords

Pills and crumpled napkins,

breakfast crumbs, newspapers

Baking in the oven… Pat telling

stories that don’t fit together;

words come first, then the puzzle,

then the empty spaces.

 

Last Day

On television an old man

Talking to an empty chair, other

Old men bobbing like cut bait

For Leviathan to clear the air…

This is Florida. I can’t wait

To get out of here…

A few families on Bonita Beach

Paralyzed by the sun. Stillness

Everywhere. Within the stillness,

A slight rise and fall on the bay

That pulls freighters into the haze

Does God read my mind?

Maybe, maybe not.

Pat has only a few days

and I am content to sit here,

mind empty, more or less,

no memories, no lists, no tasks,

just stillness and sand,

mind read, contents emptied...