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February 2023
Mary Wehner
mkwehner@icloud.com / marywehner.com
Bio Note: I love moving words around. I love pushing paint around. The abstraction of thought or idea gives me great satisfaction. The word revise—to re-examine is great fun. I start with paper or canvas and move things around—words, lines, stanzas, and in painting I add and subtract. I try to avoid the obvious even in the plain spoke. I’ve published here and there and surprisingly won a few contests both in poetry and painting. I write every day for the joy of it.

Another City Day

Heavy winds first thing — 
soot rising up
against high brick walls,

rattling the sky-pink windows
before the city can
set its measure and tempo,  

settling its ash on park bench, 
on flowers, on lamp poles, 
on street scattered newsprint, 

a neighborhood in its cycle —
commerce overriding 
morning’s promised calm —

the stained bridge 
flashing its rusty red traffic 
like a siren in the street,

bird clouds rising up 
to their own measure and tempo
announcing another day of chaos.
                        

A Line Drawn

First thing and the house wakes, 
a west wind bending its bones,
stretching up and out and over 

the seed clouds and down
into the weed-tangled lawn 
held momentarily  

in a weathered balancing act, 
snow patterned like flecked ink,
mark making — house, wind, 

worry in an icy swirl, my pen 
shaky as a cracked branch
against the sharp edge 

of a blackbird hanging 
in the high left corner,
an artistic testament to the day.

Begin with idea, one said,
begin with image, said another.
I will begin with line. 
                        

Flyover

Plane after plane traveling over
lake, tree, lawn, my spackled rooftop,
prompting a stay-at-home introspection  		
through glass, through snow, through fog.

Some days I want to be up there.
I want to distance myself from this chaos,
loosen the fear of height and murky water, 
every dull societal judgement.

But mostly I want to be here in this 
space of boredom and relative balance. 
I want to believe that travel is to live 
an untethered reality — the wishful fool.

Don’t land in this barren landscape, don’t
visit or pretend to understand my ways,
keep flying over to the next city, the next craze,
the next astonishment.  I promise to stay here.
                        
©2023 Mary Wehner
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL