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The Blue Fell

The Blue Fell

The sky was catching its breath on the mountaintop
It had come a long way I suppose in a hurry its journey

Not yet done For whom do you carry these tears
Asked the fell For a son who has lost his father

The sky answered though this cloud has enough
Grief that some may fall on the car just now lost

In its fog The pines on the fell bristled and the under
Growth glistened with derision The fog said the fell

Is mine it arises from my circumstance in the lower
Green regrets it is too humble to creep over these

Heights and the fell broke the cloud and the cloud’s
Own dying half-crept east bleeding clear rain

and wind from the contours
Broke it further

And a man awoke from a dream of holding his
Mother who was crying but in the dream the tears

Were words in other languages because she had forgotten
Her own language six years ago the words rolling

Across the floor like marbles rolling incomprehensible
And outside his father younger by forty years

Was mowing the lawn shirtless he liked how the mower
Was so loud no one could call his name

Until he was done then I blinked halfway up the fell
Sleet clattering like marbles off the windshield

I took him up once at the top on a clear day
We stood there with nothing between us

And we went back down together

August 21

A great eclipse poem by C. Not ‘optional’ reading…

OPTIONAL POETRY

A magnitude of difference
between true totality
and ninety-eight percent.

Even so, and for only ninety-three,
we rushed out after rounds
and off the floors

and gathered on the roof
in scrubs and scrub hats
or business casual

sharing cheap glasses
and cardboard viewers
and temporarily forgetting

the code just moments earlier—
occluded vessels, and open chest.
I didn’t hear them call it,

had stared from the corridor
at the vacant face, unsure,
but only briefly.

Some artist said art is an action
against, a denial of death.
Exquisite contrast here:

a light goes out permanently–
no fractions, shades, or nuance.
Minutes before totality

our shadows turned sinuous,
like warped x-rays,
long and lithe and wrong.

Filtered through the trees,
a thousand shadow-crescents,
cast by the pinhole spaces

between the leaves,
too small to see directly.
Even seven percent of sun

was bright as day—
someone from HR said
it…

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Pre-eclipse artifacts

DARK

Pre-eclipse artifacts

I pause the horror movie to go to bed.
The gray tree frogs rolling dice in the dark.

Night enters the room, but without
stars, crickets, wind in the walnut trees,

all stuck to the window screen’s other side.
And for three days sleep would also

not come in. It stayed out there, hovering

moth, opportunity missed like a perseid.
Without that thing I have no memory of

I could barely remember myself. I blamed
my stress, my sins, my age. Blamed the photo

of the bodies floating behind the car
like points in a constellation for fear,

already so far beyond gravity.

But there is always something more
frightening than what you fear most.

Tomorrow the monster we killed as children
will have to be killed again. Without my eyeglasses,

in an hour where weapons of any kind are scarce,
the five toothbrushes on my bathroom sink

shone in the dark and brought me back.

the things we carry

If you’re not a regular visit to Leonard’s site, you might want to check it out. His posts of poems by Tang and Sung dynasty Chinese poets started me down a very important path as a reader and a writer. His own work, such as the poem here, are wonderfully evolved mechanisms of concision that you don’t even realize have gotten into your head until suddenly a thought of your own blooms, seemingly out of nowhere, and you realize it grew from one of his poems. This poem is a great example of that. You will remember this, hours or days or years from now.

Leonard Durso

the things we carry
are the things
that won’t let go

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Looking to the ground on an overcast full moon evening and seeing the sky

Taken with NightCap Pro

Looking to the ground on an overcast full moon evening and seeing the sky

And on waking we move from the month
of vines to the month of ivy.

From sensing

our own growth relies on support to sensing
heights

and a path we create by ascending.

july’s patient moon [#fullmoonsocial]

Jessamayann’s moon is far more patient than mine tonight, still fighting to get over cloud cover. #fullmoonsocial

Jessamayann

it stops briefly, mid-night high, hoping we will look up to see the things that split air are union,

is patient as a kite teetering to stillness just before it falls back to earth to wait for the child’s return-

together,  they will break open the day.

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