The Poet Community

Elaine Meredith

Countless the Times | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

Porch light cut slant,
the venetian louvers hard
to the enameled outline,
the last sheet fluttering
in the evening, soft aspired;
counter’s dust sheen broken;
the beaded wet circle of
tumbler ice sweat at the
margins, and center recurring
to broken awakenings; one
instant the hard gained grasp
of a gnat on screen wire;
in with that one vision and,
pitiful staccato sheared wing
lifting semaphore over another,
as an unfilled shopping list, where
one item goes always missing: that
same, saved by a string run down
the hallway, stealthy vibrant, from
which neon traces will flicker white
spun cordage…unto a midnight,
temptingly waiting.

Ladies of the Auxiliary | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

A downer by every inch,
perched over a back road,
short woodcutting tags,
gas saw dead in the dirt;
a silent spark plug flashes
finally at dark, pull rope
jumped the coil to life,
useless on a cylinder head.
A dozen miles to town,
hardtack gone, worn tires,
short days to the end of
cutting season, a late night
breeze into the tree tops,
when in the small hours
the starlight goes missing
in a vast shadowy gloom;
nose to nose at the tent flap
with a full size foraging bear
whose then rueful departure
cancels all mechanical
failure.

Matchless | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

Winter passed, shadows fell
foreshortened, snow patches
yielded sight of forest floor depth,
early morning’s sunlight blazed
on tree tops, in motionless calm
of nearing spring; evergreen’s
burgeoned leaves where songbird’s
trumpet clear piping followed
far cirrus banners along chilled
blue skies. Distant summits rose
above high plateaus, ascending
sweeping arcs; capped stone spires
cleaved through like wave’s crests
below a cloud capped majesty
hidden in mystery.

Shoreline’s gentle swell rolled
in cradle rocking pulse, met stone
strewn land’s edge, pines stood at
water line; bathed chill dampness,
faint breezes landward rising; all
gazing to the waters’ embraced earth
like sentinels from other lives
and times. Unto it flowed jumbled
snow melt wash, cut bare swatches
down long slope forested parks
to shore’s waiting arms. Freshets
yielding washed away sparse soils,
spring runs heavy through tight
boulder strewn gullies, murmuring
rapid’s misty churning pools, swore
boundless sustenance; as others
had seen the same, yet turned away
to the traces of their own arrivals
in morning’s wakening chants.

Freighter’s gear wheeling along,
white mist; pillared tall smoke,
columns climbing straight as ship’s
spars, rattle of camp pans, turning
mill of yarder’s engines, silence
parting bite of faller’s axes over
rhythmic cross cut choruses digging
into wood, and when it finished,
only overgrown roadways remained.
There they slept, wending ancient
stump strewn landscapes; new growth
meeting its long struggle, reclaiming
daylight set barrens beneath low
brushy canopies; mournful cooing
of doves above small hooved herds,
moving haltingly to water.

Sunny Side Up | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

If we shut the door
there’d be some paths
to choose between,
and tomorrows every
time, yet to live unto
our yesterdays will
only do once given
‘way the troubles we
sorely seem to mind.

If it was only right
or wrong, decisions
are ever to hand,
yet none really lives
that save in aftermaths
where certainty stands
in for faith and march
time is made to stop
amid the path.

It’s simply just this
matter; putting away
the second thoughts
of have to, should, and
ought, and just say
some one gentle
word or two of the
happiness we’ve
mostly brought.

Along the Way | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

Undone in a moment of despair,
tripping through an empty field
on the way to forever, hoping for
some stop along the way.

Not many times are there refuges
on the path to destiny, and detours
past fate with byways that lead to
second chances ’round the bend.

With bridges over honeysuckle
rivers that carry blissful reprieves
like a side show card sharp with
happiness up a sleeve.

Were it only just a place we’d have
a choice and merely wonder why,
but that honeysuckle river keeps
on flowing fast and wide.

At least the bridge is down, and
those who wish can cross on over,
tripping through an empty field
and dreams of knee high clover.

Yet Beyond | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

Slipping into a silent calm;
recall, feeling, nuances, moments
of lost memories, none which tinder
fires of misgiving or regrets
coming suddenly into midnight’s
stark solitude.

Where others have a measure
constant and unfailing, that they
themselves credit not a moment
more than folly; pleading goodwill
for some way of certain means
to given ends.

Its plain dealing seen so estimable
a thing gifted of healthful neglects;
a class of virtuous features: flinty
facades over spellbinding whirlpools,
a charade gaining bounty uncovered
beneath bewilderment.

That when one comes into depths
of a wilderness, in brief instants of
storm’s calm and measureless night,
where are lifted from pools treasures
by shadowed forms, ask no trifles
or notions, and beware all reason.

Such lands of evening must remain
surely within the slumber of those
yet nurtured by their kindly dreams,
and the silence of boundless solitude
that in other times and other places
can not go at a single price.

Like Dude | A Poem by Elaine Meredith

I am sitting by the phone
waiting for the slightest clue how
coil springs flew from the watch
dial face of my good times meter
before its needle made the polka
dot zone, all beneath the so modest
gaze of those now gathered together
who mouth simpering inconsistencies
in choruses of overwrought sympathy.
What has become of my carbonated
lightning, its startling fluorescent
fizzle above another would be forever;
those self appointed savants who
promised a slide show rendezvous
like a slim shack ring a ding?
I simply can not miss seeing
that they have been displaced by
play back from those high enders
who now rent out sound bites to
passersby along alleyways, in their
melancholy midnight sojourns.
Did they not see the prescriptions
for a limelight feature attraction
where the ping pong balls are having
second thoughts about their retirement
home, and are no longer willing to
invest in the monotony of a flat
enameled plywood world?
So, like Dude, if the phone rings
some input might be helpful,
and I might at least figure out
where all the twisted blue steel
is coming from.