Poetry
by Harry Calhoun
Baseball,
behind the trees
beyond the trees somewhere this evening
and early most May-September nights
the kids are playing ball
I am blinded by a grove of trees
but my hearing is correspondingly acute
an ancient child walking his big black
Lab
I hear an announcer and the crowd
and the bonk of aluminum bats striking horsehide
and the kids' shouts and the stands roaring
like thunder after lightning
in my day it was the sweet crack
of a Louisville Slugger Adirondack ash bat
but beyond that memory, this night
is a comforting cliché: fresh-mown grass,
the whirr of lawnmowers, the promise of a full moon
the magnolia-sweet smell of onrushing summer
and beyond the cliché the oxymoron
of a sad happiness the sounds are the same
the feeling is the same as childhood
but if I had a mirror
it would tell me
summer is not the only season
that relentlessly rushes in
top
Sapphire,
the creche
she glows bluebright, the star sapphire
my birthstone and finding her
was my birth or at least
rebirth
it was as if the sapphire
leapt azurean from the humble earth
to shine as a star
over my manger
no wise men preside
over the event
a middle-aged man
isn't much of a symbol
but I feel like a child
blessed in her presence
top
Sunday
afternoon
walking Alex's sturdy black bulk
as Sunday morning turns the corner
into afternoon
in one yard a border of wild violets
purple and lined as carefully
as if prize flowers planted
and in another clumps
of wild chives pop up
dark green and rebellious
taking over the lawn
tomorrow at work nobody
will care because work
is all about order and work
is all about proper and work
is what I'm dreading now
when I was a little boy
I gave my mother a bouquet
of dandelions and johnny jump ups
and she seemed to like them fine
and she didn't seem to care
if they were weeds or flowers
and on my better days
like today
neither do I
top
Harry Calhoun has been published
all over the place but you'd probably only recognize a few of
them - Writer's Digest and the National Enquirer, for instance.
He has found frequent editorial favor as a poet in small-press
magazines since the 80s, edited a poetry magazine, and has been
a widely published freelance article and literary essay writer.
Recently, he has been pleasantly surprised that people recognize
him for having published a now-rare booklet of Charles Bukowski
poems in 1985. He's happily married to fellow writer Trina Allen.
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