From black to gold to black to gold to black
Adrift in the worn brush of wild’ness past
Not seen, not heard, not pawed upon soft grass,
No prey to catch, to chase through pitch and burrow,
The rotten stump, a boarder jet and blond,
No more remunes, for breath and sigh is lack.
Unseen amidst the wood and leafed wrack,
No rush to feast, no rush to hide from row.
Transfigured now but on a yellowed sheet,
The gold made white, no longer fur but line,
An acetate and alkaline marked brine,
The only echo left, long past last bleat.
Unless the beast still prowl, one fight is all to show:
A frayed print against forgetting’s undertow.
I found out today that my undergraduate advisor, Dr. George Hickenlooper died last week. Dr. Hickenlooper's English Comp I class was my first class on my first day as a college student. I still remember the assessment test he gave that first day and how the very professorial professor described in the reading comprehension portion of that test reminded me a bit of my new professor. He just was a professor. A good professor.
CXXXVII. Snow fell on past snow,
Restored the day-toiled cover,
Hid foretastes of spring.
CXXXVIII. Light dances on snow,
Unaware the icy air,
Content to melt later.
CXXXIL. Not a snowman graced
The path I took — forgotten
Amongst the garland.
CXXXIV. Softly, soothingly,
The winter wind sails about
Answers not questions.
CXXXV. Awakened long past,
A postage stamp sits unsent,
Bought on a cold day.
CXXXVI. O fair wind which blows,
Here and there unanswered, flows.
By whom have you passed?
CXXXI. The Lightning flashes
Like a giant firefly,
The dark wood watches.
CXXXII. Light, but no thunder —
A fury held back by space,
As plants strain to reach.
CXXXIII. I thought it was so,
He said, head resting in hands.
He strain'd in silence.
CXXVIII. Crickets chirp softly.
The warm summer air flows 'bout
Their mournful old tune.
CXXIX. What is their secret?
E'ery summer, they chirp anew,
The old melody.
CXXX. Tell me now what is —
I only wish to understand —
What lingers. Again.
CXXV. The dark night crept around
The window panes, curled about,
And settled inside.
CXXVI. Kalmar now contains
A secret which hides about,
One foot around it.
CXXVII. What is to be told,
And what has been told so far —
Neither are so clear.
CXXII. The silent word cuts
As no finely tuned phrase could.
Razor sharp, not quick.
CXXIII. A leaf, a cricket,
An empty cafe chair rusts a bit
In the summer's haze.
CXXIV. What was, was not really,
Or was it what it seemed?
An answer deferred.
CXIX. The porch light glows. Isolated
From anyone to enjoy
CXX. Silence. Rain passed.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The trees lose hold
Of storm-remnants. Drip.
CXXI. Crickets do not care.
They do not chirp at all now.
For it is still spring.
CXV. Silence prowls around
Bushes below my window.
Claws scratch quietly.
CXVII. Oh, cruel time! Tick, tock.
Time erodes when it could build —
A hole, but not whole.
CXVIII. Old friend, so much time
Has passed through the rugged chasm.