Something for the Journey

photoart: sharon auberle

Something for the Journey

by Alice D’Alessio

Suppose, for instance,

this is the last morning.  You never know.

You wake to find a wet snow

has sneaked in after midnight

wrapping the branches

with an airy gauze, spangled with diamonds

so that every snarly twig and tendril

is an epiphany of white

etched against the purple-blue

of an undecided sky.

And you want to be sure to seize it,

store it in scented linens,

in carved and gilded coffers

along with last May’s poppies,

August sunlight spilling its motes and spores

among the pines and sandstone cliffs,

and a copy of your only perfect poem.

Because we must take something with us,

like the pharaohs.

~  previously published in Praise the Undaunted

Trees at the Somme

photoart: sharon auberle

 

Trees at the Somme

by Alice D’Alessio

 

What you notice first

is a landscape without presence,

motion or sound: a flat field,

a column of trees.

The red-brown soil buries

the cries of dying soldiers,

the blood and piss, the threads

of shredded fabric, buttons

and matted hair.  The soil

that someone tills each spring –

carving parallel scars in a sterile field

too full of cordite for anything to grow.

Time's merciful silting thickens.

Only a small brown hut

memorializes this place

and the trees, stark witnesses,

scarred by stray bullets lodged in their flesh.

If they could speak

to those who come in awe

to those too young to know;

could answer, what was it like?

Just once, would someone listen?

Or must we go on tilling poison soil

planting fields of sorrow.

~ first published in A Blessing of Trees (Cross + Roads Press)

Winter Poet

digital art: ralph murre

Winter Poet
by Alice D’Alessio

Mostly a foul weather friend
my muse vacations in the warmth
and sun, stretches, yawns and naps;
strolls languid along the pebbled paths
inspects a heavy-headed hibiscus
samples a ripe peach.

Vainly I plead, bribe, flatter.
She raises indolent fingers to her lips
smiling that enigmatic smile.
Sorry, she murmurs,
I need some howling winds
to stir my blood; some angst and deprivation.
Just slip a randy lover through the door
to fire my pulses; we'll grapple on the hearthrug
by the flickering coals, and he'll inflame –
and he'll abandon.
Then play some Mahler for me to weep by;
sop me with bitter tea, and brandy, neat.

You want a haunting epic, rich
with many-layered meaning?
Call when November drizzle
rends my heart.


~ first published in Free Verse

FROM ALL THAT HAUNTS US

artwork: ralph murre

From all that haunts us
by Alice D’Alessio

I retreat, drawing close
the green walls of my world.
A chorus of birdsongs mutes

for these brief moments, the sirens of unholy wars.
At the top of the meadow, nestled
among the birdsfoot violets

and early grasses too short for cover
a freckled newborn, legs neatly tucked,
pretends to be invisible.

Only the twitching of a moist nose
gives it away. I tiptoe on, unwilling
to contemplate its small, doomed life.

Isn’t there a place where the deer can be safe?
says my grandson, crying,
when he learns about hunters. I turn
his question over as I turn the parchment skull

of the scavenged hawk,
puzzling for answers. Oh, let me slip
into my burrow, blind and dumb. Safe

is not a word that we can teach
to four year olds any more. Only
this moment, this sunshine, this fawn.

~ first published in Albatross Magazine