January 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
Thanksgiving, 2016
On the back of a Korean
automobile the owner
has painted AMERICANS FIRST
while the decal
on the side window says
IRISH PRIDE.
It’s Thanksgiving Day
and in the park the African
lovebirds who have found a second home
in our city make the trees
sound happy.
There is white
bread and barbeque,
a romantic Mexican
tune flowing through the rolled down
window to a car in the parking lot,
and around a smoking grill
some men speak in garlic scented phrasing
from somewhere to the east
while their sons and daughters
joke in the English
they were born to
and the European
starlings swirl in number
as though the sky had been stirred
with a spoon.
The Big Issues
Inside every suit of clothes
someone walks along
carrying the truth in one pocket
and lies in the other.
There’s a man in business attire
whose shoes smile up at him
with every step he takes
and a woman with holes
in her coat so the light
shines straight through her.
Which one do we stop
to ask directions, perhaps
moving on to a question
of what life is all about? Something
neither one expects
and which leaves them
fingering loose change
while thinking what to answer.
The shoes say everything’s
all in good order, the markets
are happy today, while the coat
lies down in a puddle of misery.
They won’t say
what they believe deep down, you know,
in that place where decisions
are made, where there’s a signpost
instead of a soul.
Breakage
It was an accident the way
the glass slipped in the sink an accident
how the mower kept running
when it cut through the power cord
and nobody intended
for the olive oil to spill
over the brand new tablecloth
while outside the landscapers were cutting
the wrong tree down
and workers broke the water pipe
when they dug the wrong trench
placing the street under water
which left traffic diverted
to the next major road
where drivers grew impatient
though no one had meant to they caused
a new sedan to crash into
a truck whose owner had voted
out of anger and frustration
so the government changed into something
he hadn’t really wanted
and now he thought he’d stepped
into a video game
with drought and pestilence
of the kind he used to watch believing
it was all made up
but the noise intensified as the earth
cracked open with nothing
budgeted for help
in the event of a disaster on the scale
of what was happening let alone
to cover the cost
of repairs
to broken promises.
Thanksgiving, 2016
On the back of a Korean
automobile the owner
has painted AMERICANS FIRST
while the decal
on the side window says
IRISH PRIDE.
It’s Thanksgiving Day
and in the park the African
lovebirds who have found a second home
in our city make the trees
sound happy.
There is white
bread and barbeque,
a romantic Mexican
tune flowing through the rolled down
window to a car in the parking lot,
and around a smoking grill
some men speak in garlic scented phrasing
from somewhere to the east
while their sons and daughters
joke in the English
they were born to
and the European
starlings swirl in number
as though the sky had been stirred
with a spoon.
The Big Issues
Inside every suit of clothes
someone walks along
carrying the truth in one pocket
and lies in the other.
There’s a man in business attire
whose shoes smile up at him
with every step he takes
and a woman with holes
in her coat so the light
shines straight through her.
Which one do we stop
to ask directions, perhaps
moving on to a question
of what life is all about? Something
neither one expects
and which leaves them
fingering loose change
while thinking what to answer.
The shoes say everything’s
all in good order, the markets
are happy today, while the coat
lies down in a puddle of misery.
They won’t say
what they believe deep down, you know,
in that place where decisions
are made, where there’s a signpost
instead of a soul.
Breakage
It was an accident the way
the glass slipped in the sink an accident
how the mower kept running
when it cut through the power cord
and nobody intended
for the olive oil to spill
over the brand new tablecloth
while outside the landscapers were cutting
the wrong tree down
and workers broke the water pipe
when they dug the wrong trench
placing the street under water
which left traffic diverted
to the next major road
where drivers grew impatient
though no one had meant to they caused
a new sedan to crash into
a truck whose owner had voted
out of anger and frustration
so the government changed into something
he hadn’t really wanted
and now he thought he’d stepped
into a video game
with drought and pestilence
of the kind he used to watch believing
it was all made up
but the noise intensified as the earth
cracked open with nothing
budgeted for help
in the event of a disaster on the scale
of what was happening let alone
to cover the cost
of repairs
to broken promises.
©2016 David Chorlton
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