RE / VERSE Post # 400

   Today, in honor of this being Little Eagle's 400th post on RE / VERSE, we're looking all the way back to post #1, and repeating it here.  Our first re-run and still one of this editor's all-time favorite poems, we very proudly present . . .

artwork: ralph murre

THE FACE OF MY FATHER

by Michael Koehler

As I lather his face, his skin,
in the concentrated kitchen light, is dark and slick
as old onion skin. I am amazed at my gentleness.
An infrequent shaver, prone to stubble and beards,
my hands are now sure, the blade steady.
He sits with a towel wrapped around his scarred bony chest,
head on the back of the chair,
eyes closed.
As I scrape a three day growth off his face
and into the bowl of water on the table,
I remember the times he trusted me.
I was not always this focused, not always this true.
The house is quiet,
only his breathing and the rasp of the razor.
I notice how sparse his hair, how blue his skin.
His eyes are huge behind their lids, and I wonder
when the time comes, will I be able to put coins over them.
Done, I pat his face dry. He snores softly.
I bend down over him, like a father over his son's crib,
cup his face in my hands, memorize it with my fingers.
If he wakes I'll say "smooth as a baby's butt"
because that is what he will expect from me.

~ first printed in UA-Huntsville’s POEM and simultaneously, in
Notes From Skinner’s Elbow (Wolfsong Publications)

Notes from Skinner's Elbow

digital manipulation by ralph murre of photo by larry lemski

Notes from Skinner’s Elbow

by Michael Koehler

         1.

The wind never stops.

It is tireless like the river

and aloof.

The wind sometimes talks to the ground,

two hundred-year-old trees

shake at such dire language.

The moss crawls to the underside of boulders,

branches bump each other like angry men shoving.

Other times

it whispers to the top branches

of aspens,

trades secrets like shy young girls

who sit in the sun,

mouth to ear.

The wind can sound like a lullaby.

After the sun dies

I sleep in the arms of cedars.

When the sun is reborn

the first things I see are Kingfishers,

perched two to a branch

all up and down the river.

Their diving for minnows is a gentle blue hailstorm.

One time,

like a nightmare,

I heard the wind scream.

After the lumbermen left

the wind had no branches to rest on,

or sing through.

The wind became a gale,

furious, blind with anger.

Defeated, it left that part of the river.

Now it visits once or twice a year,

finds whatever it seeks,

comes back stronger the next year.

          2.

The time comes to put away the reels,

the rods, the tackle boxes.

There comes a day when it gets too dark

for hearts to intrude with hook and sinker.

A time when the river says

You have enjoyed my bounty.

Now you must listen to my story.

The deep grumble of the night river

glows over the fire pit

where oak and pine warm hearts.

So terrible is the river’s tale

that we might freeze to stone

if unguarded by flame.

As the moon swims through its bed of stars,

I listen.

When the story ends and light returns,

all I have the courage to say is,

River, my friend,

I have no place to stand.

Between water and land is a space

too insubstantial to hold me,

knowing what I know.

My brother tells me

the quest may be for each heart alone

but the journey can be shared.

          3.

We sit on the banks of the river

at Skinner’s Elbow and play our flutes.

The sun rises and blesses us,

who have asked for nothing

but another day to live, to love, to learn.

Because our flutes sing songs from our hearts,

we hear a question not meant for our ears;

a question trees ask the wind, rain, and the shadows:

Have our Brothers returned?

The red squirrel says to the white pine,

They play strange songs.

The raven says to the trillium,

They sing like mourners.

And the wind says to the eagle,

Yes, but they have learned their way here.

~ previously published in Notes from Skinner’s Elbow

   (Wolfsong Publications)

POEM FOR THE DEPARTED

artwork: ralph murre

POEM FOR THE DEPARTED

by Michael Koehler

I want to write

a death poem,

for no one in particular.

I won’t say how you died.

And I can’t speak  for

the others left behind.

It’s almost certain

your death wasn’t fair,

was years too soon.

Unable to make a quilt

from your shirt, or braid your hair

into a vase of flowers,

or cast your dear face

in whitest porcelain

to hang on the wall,

please allow me these small words,

flower petals, really, no more,

for no other reason than

you know I need to write them.

~ previously published in Red Boots (Little Eagle Press)

TO FRIENDS - on the first anniversary of RE / VERSE

ellen & mike

TO FRIENDS

by Michael Koehler

This is the time we have left.

These hours that we live, let us

walk a sun-dappled lane

or a summer city sidewalk.

My friends, let us walk a time together.

How is your life, and your happiness?

Please answer for me these most

important questions.

It sometimes seems our troubles

and the days and hours that contain them

overshadow those moments of stillness

where the quiet rings with the peace

of chapel bells that once announced

the approach of dusk, signaling time to

change pace    slow down.

Day is done   night comes.

Let us walk lightly

and we will find the footsteps shared

with friends are not counted against

the sums of our lives.

When we walk, the day stretches farther

than we can see, and when it is time

to leave—it is too soon.

This is the time we have left.

These hours that we live, let us love.

~ first published in Siftings

AT TABLE

photo: sharon auberle

 AT TABLE

by Michael Koehler

Chew on the gristle of these words.

Do they fill that hollow craving

that yawns just below the heart?

I sit at the table of my life,

plates loaded with all I desire,

heavy wine glistening in the flagrant candlelight.

My ghostly guests raise a toast to me, their host.

Old Loneliness stares into his cups,

mutters what could be a curse.

The Little Boy who was rewarded with snacks

eats all the greens on his plate out of fear.

Sadness picks at her food, goes hard on the Cabernet.

The Junkie has abandoned the table altogether

and sits now in the light of the refrigerator.

With one expansive gesture I ingest them all.

If there are skeletons in any of the closets of my heart

they are the bones of ancestors picked clean long ago.

~ first published in Fox Cry Review

One from TANGLETOWN

cover art: emmett johns

Mayor Ed
by Michael Koehler

In Tangletown
Mayor Ed runs the dry cleaners,
plays poker in the backroom
at Hunan Harry’s with the police chief
and Monsignor Cushman,
drinks dago red by the quart.
Ed pinches the waitress’ ass
and accepts campaign contributions
passed inside handshakes.
His wife gave me head
last year at the charity ball.
He has my vote.
Besides, it was nice doing to his
what he has done for years
to all us poor suckers here
in Tangletown.

~ previously published in Tangletown (Cross + Roads Press)

MEDICINE FOR A FRIEND

photoart: ralph murre

MEDICINE FOR A FRIEND
by Michael Koehler

Let me give you this:
Tall prairie grass humming like old women
gathered to quilt their long memories into
a tan and green and dark brown field
where, underneath, small things
can be warm as the sun on sumac.

Take this, too:
The sky a peerless blue,
high clouds rippled like the flesh of walleye.

And here, in my heart,
my love, one leaf that never falls,
waving like an anthem,
keeping the bare tree rooted to the earth.

~ first published in Red Boots (Little Eagle Press)

THE FACE OF MY FATHER

artwork: ralph murre

THE FACE OF MY FATHER
by Michael Koehler

As I lather his face, his skin,
in the concentrated kitchen light, is dark and slick
as old onion skin. I am amazed at my gentleness.
An infrequent shaver, prone to stubble and beards,
my hands are now sure, the blade steady.
He sits with a towel wrapped around his scarred bony chest,
head on the back of the chair,
eyes closed.
As I scrape a three day growth off his face
and into the bowl of water on the table,
I remember the times he trusted me.
I was not always this focused, not always this true.
The house is quiet,
only his breathing and the rasp of the razor.
I notice how sparse his hair, how blue his skin.
His eyes are huge behind their lids, and I wonder
when the time comes, will I be able to put coins over them.
Done, I pat his face dry. He snores softly.
I bend down over him, like a father over his son's crib,
cup his face in my hands, memorize it with my fingers.
If he wakes I'll say "smooth as a baby's butt"
because that is what he will expect from me.

~ first printed in UA-Huntsville’s POEM and simultaneously, in
Notes From Skinner’s Elbow (Wolfsong Publications)