A Postcard from Where I Live Now

A Postcard from Where I Live Now

There’s a barn here where all the words live, and we make stories of them for people.

“Mister,” the letter said to me, “my husband’s always loved words. Age is taking him, and he can’t tell the stories that he hears inside. Is there a tale I can give to thank him for all the places his words have taken me?”

I sat on the floor of the barn. Instead of calling the words, I read them the letter. They heard me out, and I listened to them rustle-shuffle as they will when they see the path. When all was quiet again, I took the ones who’d volunteered and put them in a box, last at the bottom and first at the top, to be unfolded as a gift to a man loved by a woman.

Aluminum OvercastAluminum Overcast

To understand the title,
do the math in your mind’s eye.
One silver fuselage. Two wings.
Four engines, ten men.
Twelve guns and sixteen bombs.
Multiply by ten.
Again, then again.
You’ve reached a thousand folded
into tight formation: The Big Birds.

Is it any wonder the air shakes
the roots of trees before the
blast of bombs gives voice?
It is any wonder the sun is obscured
before the pillars of fire give birth
to climbing pillars of smoke?
If there is any wonder,
it is that walls still stand
and men still walk among them.

Chicago; Rainy Night

Chicago; Rainy Night

I came to town a
one-bag stranger you
held a picture of,
the plane and I in time.

And now
I’m looking at this city
from your window,
trying not to think of
what’s to come.

Jazz Me

Jazz Me  

start me deep with jungle rhythms add sugar cane and soils containing languages we’ll learn to soon discard give me baptism by fires in the darkest of the night and then escape with me while our others wallow while our others follow missionary tracts and black motes noted on white sheets we will fix on fusion we will find the star stuff in each free improvisation I will riff your body with my fingers bring forth emanations with my lips while you pluck counter notes and melodies to see us off this stage beyond percussive endings deep in god

Ripples

Ripples

In a crowded Sunday afternoon rotunda,
fingers ripple across keys
and the stream pauses, breathes deep,
moves off changed, change-filled.

Pen and paper meet, declaring your objection,
and the unmet friend of a friend,
tracing the whorls your hand describes,
refuses his recall to battle.

Set your hands in forms of water
(glassy pasture pond, sun-washed snow,
steam rising sibilant from city sidewalk grates)
and see the impact of your movement spread.

Urban Ivy

Urban Ivy

gray pipes climb
to enter brick wall
urban ivy clings tight

 

What is it about a house

What is it about a house

standing empty in its overgrowth, windows boarded or stoned while the front door’s welcome is kicked in by untended roots and branches, that sharpens our senses, raises those small hairs the barber missed, and leaves us edgy for hours? The animal brain keeps whispering what if what if what if about rats snakes and spiders rotten floorboards tetanus nails black mold ceilings a dead body or worse an axe killer in need of one to leave behind for the next explorer. Breathe. Center. If it would shush a moment, we could hear the heart reminding us the time for this place has come and gone, explaining nothing remains, good nor evil, not even the memories of those who left this shell behind.

-Lennart Lundh

is a poet, photographer, historian, and short-fictionist. His work has appeared internationally since 1965. He can be found on Facebook as Lennart Lundh, and on Twitter as @lenlundh. Len’s books are available at Etsy.com/shop/VisionsWords and through numerous physical and online retailers. Recordings of his poetry are at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVop7qstg59vLG3VaAQWW_g. The Web site for his photography is lennart-lundh.pixels.com.