February 2017
David Chorlton
rdchorlton@netzero.net
rdchorlton@netzero.net
I have lived in Phoenix since 1978 when I moved from Vienna, Austria. Born in Austria, I grew up in Manchester, close to rain and the northern English industrial zone. In my early 20s I went to live in Vienna and from there enjoyed many trips around Europe, often as an artist working in watercolor. My poems have appeared in Slipstream, Skidrow Penthouse, and Poem, among others, and my Selected Poems appeared in 2014 from FutureCycle Press. http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com
First Day
A rainy day murmuration
is strung along the power lines
that run above the alley
back of the house. It’s the first day
and the winter branches
on the yard’s most desperate trees
against the sodden clouds.
look afraid of what’s to come
as all the clocks in Heaven say
it’s time to change your passwords,
travel light, and flock
together for protection.
Dawn Song
The sky remains indifferent
to a new morning’s news
as the trees across the street
step out of darkness
and begin to sing. The palm fronds
are still as the mile-away wail
from a freight train proclaims
that business has been resumed.
The light from insomniac lamps
on neighbors’ porches
have a still-warm glow
dissolving slowly into air
just before the city
speaks its first words to the day.
The garbage truck is hungry
and growls its way from house
to waking house
while a siren out of nowhere
tells us Hurry: a coyote
on the loose has flushed
the future out of hiding
and the traffic can’t keep up.
Broken Consort
Add to the viols a flute
and the completed ensemble
is broken. The strings
form a bed for the notes
the winds play
to rest upon, and the concert proceeds
as music used to do
in the age of ruffs and lace
when elegance demanded
a multiplicity of textures. Time
soaked into the wood
of instruments and let the notes
mature inside them
until released
by horsehair bows, while breath
became transformed
and even the ladies
whose skin was always pale from staying
indoors were merry
in a way that comes from feeling
a broken spirit heal
after a betrayal in which
language was made
to mean its opposite, and words
took sides against harmony.
First Day
A rainy day murmuration
is strung along the power lines
that run above the alley
back of the house. It’s the first day
and the winter branches
on the yard’s most desperate trees
against the sodden clouds.
look afraid of what’s to come
as all the clocks in Heaven say
it’s time to change your passwords,
travel light, and flock
together for protection.
Dawn Song
The sky remains indifferent
to a new morning’s news
as the trees across the street
step out of darkness
and begin to sing. The palm fronds
are still as the mile-away wail
from a freight train proclaims
that business has been resumed.
The light from insomniac lamps
on neighbors’ porches
have a still-warm glow
dissolving slowly into air
just before the city
speaks its first words to the day.
The garbage truck is hungry
and growls its way from house
to waking house
while a siren out of nowhere
tells us Hurry: a coyote
on the loose has flushed
the future out of hiding
and the traffic can’t keep up.
Broken Consort
Add to the viols a flute
and the completed ensemble
is broken. The strings
form a bed for the notes
the winds play
to rest upon, and the concert proceeds
as music used to do
in the age of ruffs and lace
when elegance demanded
a multiplicity of textures. Time
soaked into the wood
of instruments and let the notes
mature inside them
until released
by horsehair bows, while breath
became transformed
and even the ladies
whose skin was always pale from staying
indoors were merry
in a way that comes from feeling
a broken spirit heal
after a betrayal in which
language was made
to mean its opposite, and words
took sides against harmony.
©2017 David Chorlton
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