At the Still Point

photoart: ralph murre

At the Still Point

by Susan T. Moss                 

Fixed gazes stare from the museum’s

glass cases filled with stuffed

and groomed New England wildlife,

a collection to refashion nature’s

nuances in rainbow hues and textures.

A barred owl gnaws a dead mouse,

a mounted cougar crouches in wait,

two beavers chisel birch logs –

all forever feathered and furred.

Outside, stars salute the cool night,

bronze and russet festoon

the season while tarnished plants

spill spice and musk.

Through the dark,

my warm breath spirals in rhythm

with pitched trills of one bird

that refuses sleep.

~ first published in After Hours

Beyond the Potomac

                            Beyond The Potomac

                                     by Susan T. Moss

 

                                    Lincoln sits in stony silence

                                    with sleepless gaze while American

                                    soldiers shrouded in ponchos and helmets

                                    stride the Korean monument

 

                                    near a black wall sanctifying

                                    thousands who might have wondered

                                    had they lived past Vietnam

                                    what message this dark testament

 

                                    could offer those remembered

                                    in a registry at the

                                    laurel-crowned spectacle

                                    for the bloodied honor of World War II.

 

                                    And this spring a hawk swiped a sparrow

                                    and last night a coyote got the Wilsons’ dog.

                                    Destruction flies on fragile wings

                                    or stalks with hungry defiance

 

                                    through our neighborhoods and lives

                                    as we wonder what fear looks like and

                                    how to measure it in a form easy to grasp

                                    when carnage howls at our doorstep.

 

                                    ~ first published in Out of Line

Museum Skeleton

photo: ralph murre

 Museum Skeleton

                                                 by Susan T. Moss

                                                She doesn’t say to shed

                                                one’s skin.  She doesn’t say

                                                to burn brighter, work harder,

                                                pray more.

                                                She says nothing, stands erect,

                                                raised from another era

                                                when daily life had to be

                                                gathered by the handful,

                                                protected from others

                                                who only wanted their share

                                                of what became obsolete

                                                and unfathomable.

                                                We can see further,

                                                collect more, button ourselves

                                                against fierce winds that stir

                                                what she too

                                                might have felt on joyless nights

                                                with only a spark to reveal

                                                the insights we keep at arm’s length –

                                                and still the fear of the dark.

                                               

                                                ~ first published in After Hours