Monday, December 9, 2013


architectural drawing: ralph murre

 by John Flynn
He feels guilty enough about writing poems
much less talking about them for a precarious living.
He sticks closer to carpentry; straightening boards,
hammer blows, cutting out triangles of stair so it stands
right, is safe and level for the climber, the old and
babies just walking. Being sure the rafters carry
a roof that sheds rain and whatever snow load might
settle in. Joining oak boards to make the floor,
no gaps, no creaks; nails angled and set in the
tongue each with one massive blow of the mallet;       
doors that swing quietly, and catch with
a soft, hollow chirp. At end of day he puts his
tools away, picks up and sweeps. He inhales
the smell and the silence of new work and this day's
chirp of the solid core door latched behind him.
The joy of writing poems at night is that
same door opening on tomorrow

                        ~ first published in WHISTLING SHADE