August 2017
David Chorlton
DavidChorlton@centurylink.net
DavidChorlton@centurylink.net
I am a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. My poems have appeared in many publications online and in print, and reflect my affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. My newest collection of poems is Bird on a Wire from Presa Press, and late in 2017 The Bitter Oleander Press will publish Shatter the Bell in my Ear, my translations of poems by Austrian poet Christine Lavant. http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com
From a New Window
The view down the street runs directly
to the sun. First light is a splash
of fire above trees yet to awaken.
As temperatures rise
the houses pull their shadows close
and keep their inhabitants
inside. Front yard birds of paradise
smile across the asphalt
and bougainvillea turns the heat
to vibrant color
while tiny borders of rounded brick
mark where one person’s gravel
ends and another’s begins, but all
ground belongs to the rabbits
and quail
who know where the grass is lush.
The doors that open
most frequently
are those to garages offering
a brief look at whatever is too unsightly
for the house but too useful
to discard. Later on
all that moves is a coyote
sniffing out the darkest places
before he goes back to the mountain
that rises every morning
west of where the night ends.
Midsummer
It feels good just
to step outside
every now and then
while temperatures rise
beyond being degrees
and watch the mountains
turn crisp against the sky.
Sit for a moment
on the seat that swings
and pretend to be the breeze
that ruffles palm fronds.
The sun never blinks.
Past noon, a slow
trickle of doves
runs to the bath lying shallow
with water mixed into light
when the overnight low
is a memory of darkness
walking out
of the city and taking
shade away. The burn
on skin is like
being pinched to remind us
we’re alive. Out here
with pepper plants
and hallucinations the stones
hoard knowledge it would take
a saint a lifetime
to acquire. By three o’clock
it only takes a few
minutes more to wear
the heat as if
it were scales, and then
you have a tail and breathe
air by the drop.
Ahwatukee Dawn
In the stony light preceding
sunrise, the foliage begins to sing
and peaks take form
behind the palm trees growing
in a desert not their own.
The traffic’s waking up,
window blinds roll
to let the darkness out
of a house, the first blind steps
lead a sleeper back
into the day, and a glow
rises through the concrete driveway
between the cactus
and the feather grass
whose roots don’t know
they are surrounded by sidewalks
and walls. The mountain
shakes stars from its spine
and shifts its weight
while the centuries roll
down its slopes.
Wednesday Afternoon
It’s four o’clock and time
to roll the blue bins out
for the wrappings of another week to go
on to their next world before
coming back to ours, transfigured
once again. Doves
are drinking from the stone bath
while on my side of the window a recording
plays of a violin with music
for our own time: melodic but uneasy
suggesting it’s impossible
to know what will happen to us all.
The lovebird in his cage
here sings along, tossing high notes
onto uncertainty, and mockingbirds
appear outside as thirst with wings
in sunlight that appears the same
whether it falls upon the mountain
or the rooftops, on the tame
for whom each Wednesday
has a Thursday, or the wild
who live in a now
that never ends.
The view down the street runs directly
to the sun. First light is a splash
of fire above trees yet to awaken.
As temperatures rise
the houses pull their shadows close
and keep their inhabitants
inside. Front yard birds of paradise
smile across the asphalt
and bougainvillea turns the heat
to vibrant color
while tiny borders of rounded brick
mark where one person’s gravel
ends and another’s begins, but all
ground belongs to the rabbits
and quail
who know where the grass is lush.
The doors that open
most frequently
are those to garages offering
a brief look at whatever is too unsightly
for the house but too useful
to discard. Later on
all that moves is a coyote
sniffing out the darkest places
before he goes back to the mountain
that rises every morning
west of where the night ends.
Midsummer
It feels good just
to step outside
every now and then
while temperatures rise
beyond being degrees
and watch the mountains
turn crisp against the sky.
Sit for a moment
on the seat that swings
and pretend to be the breeze
that ruffles palm fronds.
The sun never blinks.
Past noon, a slow
trickle of doves
runs to the bath lying shallow
with water mixed into light
when the overnight low
is a memory of darkness
walking out
of the city and taking
shade away. The burn
on skin is like
being pinched to remind us
we’re alive. Out here
with pepper plants
and hallucinations the stones
hoard knowledge it would take
a saint a lifetime
to acquire. By three o’clock
it only takes a few
minutes more to wear
the heat as if
it were scales, and then
you have a tail and breathe
air by the drop.
Ahwatukee Dawn
In the stony light preceding
sunrise, the foliage begins to sing
and peaks take form
behind the palm trees growing
in a desert not their own.
The traffic’s waking up,
window blinds roll
to let the darkness out
of a house, the first blind steps
lead a sleeper back
into the day, and a glow
rises through the concrete driveway
between the cactus
and the feather grass
whose roots don’t know
they are surrounded by sidewalks
and walls. The mountain
shakes stars from its spine
and shifts its weight
while the centuries roll
down its slopes.
Wednesday Afternoon
It’s four o’clock and time
to roll the blue bins out
for the wrappings of another week to go
on to their next world before
coming back to ours, transfigured
once again. Doves
are drinking from the stone bath
while on my side of the window a recording
plays of a violin with music
for our own time: melodic but uneasy
suggesting it’s impossible
to know what will happen to us all.
The lovebird in his cage
here sings along, tossing high notes
onto uncertainty, and mockingbirds
appear outside as thirst with wings
in sunlight that appears the same
whether it falls upon the mountain
or the rooftops, on the tame
for whom each Wednesday
has a Thursday, or the wild
who live in a now
that never ends.
©2017 David Chorlton
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF