Play
A little boy
bangs on a metal lamppost
with a bat, heralding
a cooler sunset.
A red rubber ball rolls
toward the street corner
and drops into the storm sewer.
The manhole cover
is too heavy to pry
and lift open.
and we can’t play stickball.
Streetlamps come on.
The game changes
from rounders to spud
with a volleyball.
Who’s “It”?
Run when the ball’s thrown high.
Freeze when it’s caught
and while it’s thrown at you.
I like that game.
Next is hide-and-seek.
“Allee-allee in-free!”
is a call at darkness.
More winners appear
from behind the garage,
hedges and porches,
garbage cans and cars.
Mothers call us home.
In bright electric houses
are homework and TV.
Parents:
“Get undressed.”
“Go take a bath.”
“Put on your pajamas.”
“Cut it out in here
and go to sleep.”
Ironworker
Clubfooted worker drone, Vulcan of fires,
Volcano spewing fumes, forge of flames,
Blacksmith, smithy of blades and axe heads,
Armor-maker, breastplate and greaves, shields
Of flesh that, sliced, splits, spills and empties,
Outcast, deformed, with chunks of meteor
Or outcroppings of ore, discolored rocks
To heat and beat, smash into tools, despised
Triumphant drunk, riding a mule to the gods
To shape good uses out of studied ground
Dug, burnt, beaten, sweated, toiled, struck
With ringing resonance, clang of impure to
Power taking form, horseshoe for war steed,
Weapon for warlords and dim wannabes,
Hammered on the anvil, bellowing hot air.
Night Essay
A tired man struggles
to hint about the death
of poems in his time
after work and dinner.
The effort produces signs
of exhaustion,
with irony about self
and other depletions.
You, Reader of Puzzles,
quickly catch a rare
breath of resolve.
That’s aesthetic pleasure.
The challenge of recording
one’s work in a logbook
avoids the central tendency
to start talking politics.
When the art of government
is the Lie,
embarrassed by my rage,
I fulfill my repression.
A nightmare man,
wrapped around a skeleton, sinks
into shadowed grounds.
Above a seminary’s steep roofs,
full summer boughs swirl
with the wind, shushing.
Empedocles at Geysir
In Iceland, hot springs are so pervasive,
Many workers plunge into them at lunchtime
With their colleagues. Great Geysir is inland
On a narrow road. There, strong winds keep
Blustering. Keep children in the car.
There I read that nineteenth century tourists
Threw rocks down its well, hoping to see
The waterspout blast the rocks high skyward
When it erupts, soars. Their rocks block Geysir
– or fewer strong earthquakes calm it for now.
As I stare down into the rock-rimmed ruin,
At the entombed, crushed waste of a wonder,
Sudden gusting winds shove and propel me
Teetering, all but throw me, fast, off the
Cliff of earth’s charred, hardened crust, down, down.
Resolution
Please tell me why
the sun withdraws
its claim each night
and serves again at dawn.
You know the stars will try
to answer late. They’ll light
up changing, restless laws
of loss within what’s won.
The calendar each day
rules matters will continue.
The parties will go on.
I love how you can stay
well-grounded till we’re done:
Disputes resolve within you.
Light Fall
What shuttered windows will not tell
Is whether tossing thunder slept
While light cracked, shattered and fell.
Within, where children dwell,
Restless dreams like raccoons crept
Where windows will not tell.
Wake up, dear child, say all is well.
Vows of solemn silence were kept
While light cracked, shattered and fell.
Outside are vacant lots to sell.
How hard or long the absent wept,
Shuttered windows cannot tell.
Unuttered darkness does repel
Broad vision. We have to respect
The way light cracked, shattered and fell.
Still, dreadful silence we’ll dispel
And stir in the night to expect
Darker truths that windows may tell
Now that light cracked, shattered, fell.
© Hetty van Oordt: The Bullfight