The Space Between

digital photoart: ralph murre

The Space Between

by Robert Nordstrom

The hawk understands

in its ascending arc

the weight of the earth

and the attachments she defends

but the sky presents other problems

shifting currents…directionless expanses

like the space between your breasts

or the dreamy glaze of your eyes

as we ride these currents upward

tethered to the occasional posture of desire

to rise but not arrive

to fall but never land

the restless soul reaches for

release that will not come

and so we turn

a slight turn…barely perceptible

and are embraced by

the sacred monotony of breath itself

~ originally published in Peninsula Pulse

At the Dentist

At the Dentist

by Robert Nordstrom

Stretched out in this space-age La-Z-Boy

a high-speed Swedish-steel factory

whining inside my head

this guy cradles my head against his belly

like maybe he thinks it's me who's whining

and tells me he had a bad day

Dow Jones dropped 500 plus

but that's not his problem

and even if it were

these high-rise windows don't open

my palms are sweaty

but it's his bad day

and my bad luck

to be listening to this shit

my whole life it seems

just can't get a word in edgewise

what with this noise inside my head

and these people who make their point

despite the din

leaving me no recourse

but to wish I were a bald toothless monk

with the wisdom to understand

why these two skinny boys

and sullen little fat girl

are hanging in a frame

on a wall

next to a plant noose

in front of a window

that won't open

~ first published in Main Street Rag

Good Dog

artwork: ralph murre

Good Dog

by Robert Nordstrom

 My dog’s a liar and she isn’t very good at it.

Chin resting on her paws, she looks up at me

with her cartoon-cute eyes as if to say — Who me?

I have no idea what happened to the cracker.

But I’m not falling for her mendacious ways.

The soup cracker on the table was there

when I left the room and gone

when I returned. She has no alibi,

no sentient ravenous being to blame

so we lapse into a meltdown stare down,

which I know I’ll win because she,

like her peers, can’t bear confrontation

unless prepared to do something about it—

and she isn’t.

I step outside and light a cigarette.

This morning I told my wife I had quit

for good. Looked her dead

in the eyes and said — that’s it.

She smiled sweetly and gave me

a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

I flip my butt deep into the ferns

and go back inside. Dog lies

in the same spot, cracker

on the floor under the table

not two feet from her quivering nose.

Shameless, I pat her head,

Good dog.

~ first published in Rosebud

. . . Nursing Home Epiphany . . .

digital art: ralph murre

Norman Rockwell’s Nursing Home Epiphany

(the painting not painted)

by Robert Nordstrom

There’s Charlie

Henry

Frank

pulled up pushed in

to the TV gates

yellow pillow-head hair

electric in the flickering light

watching Weather Channel tornadoes

race across the Midwest

.

and there’s the nurses and aides

in their blue scrubs and pink smocks

sorting pills and chores

the grandchildren nephews nieces

staring in open mouthed nonplussed

amazement at

Charlie

Henry

Frank

slumped

heads bobbing and weaving

like broken down stallions

whose races have been run

and Norman

who painted the happiness

he did not know how to live

there’s Norman

alone in the corner

lower right

partially hidden

by the fern’s green fingers

his own elongated finger raised

and pointing—

he may be pointing

we wish him to be pointing—

to the narrow window

where a single amber leaf

falls through splendent light

~ first published in Miller’s Pond

Shifty Meininger

Shifty Meininger

by Robert Nordstrom

It all starts with a doodle,

always a doodle,

triangles with convex

or concave supports

burdened beneath the weight of

blackened-in circles

whose imperfect circumferences

grow larger and larger

as the hand tries to

steady the mind until

—voila—there’s an eye, a nose, or

even, just now, a marble and

—voila again—Shifty Meininger,

the best shot on the playground,

his skinny as a doodle ten-year-old self

leaning back, right foot cut

inward and inching up

to the scratch I scratched

with a stick in the dirt,

left eye shut,

right one squinting

on my prize cat’s eye boulder,

holding that shiny silver steely

I’ve coveted since it spilled out

of his bag delicately between

thumb and finger finger,

and I’m thinking

what kind of fool puts up

his prize cat’s eye boulder against

a guy named Shifty

as he slides his hand

forward and back

forward and back and

—voila—lets it fly

true, too true, splitting

my cat’s eye right in half

in an odd kind of Sunday School justice

that makes me think of

wise old King Solomon

and how I should have told Shifty

as he was eying up my cat’s eye:

Stop, just take it, go on take it,

it’s yours.

~ Originally published in Peninsula Pulse