Category: Jan-Apr 2019

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

Crossing Paths

Richard Grahn

no moon . . .
I take a breath
of silence

I’m in the mountains of West Virginia, dead-set to cross them before daybreak. Problem is, I need a ride and they appear to be in short supply. Finally, a pair of headlights navigating slowly through the falling snow. I stick out my freezing thumb but to no avail. The car eases by.

30 minutes later . . . my ride arrives, two men in a beat-up station wagon. I climb into the backseat without hesitation. We make the usual hitchhiking small talk. I tell them I’m headed to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, returning from Christmas leave. They seem to like my military status.

“You’re lucky we came along,” the driver quips. “We help the police patrol these roads for hitchhikers. It’s dangerous out here.”

chilly wind . . .
that knowing grin
in the rearview mirror

I study the rough face of the burly driver for a moment as I envision my body being dumped alongside the road. The skinny fellow in the passenger’s seat, chuckles. He passes something to the driver then turns around to look at me.

“You want some moonshine?” he asks. “It’ll warm you up. There’s a jar under the seat.”

Oh boy, I’m in a car with a couple of drunks who think they work for the police. I fumble under the seat and pull out the jar. The first sip burns my throat. The car continues on into the coal black night.

“Our turnoff’s just ahead,” one says. “but we’ll take you to the next town where it’ll be easier to get a ride.”

I thank them, welcoming the thought of civilization. Our conversation ambles as the liquor begins to warm my body. We talk about the military, patriotism and our love of freedom. We have a lot in common it seems.

Arriving in town, it appears deserted. The two men talk between themselves. Finally, the driver declares that they will take me a little further, to a better spot. Not wanting to step back out into the cold just now, I agree.

Each stop breeds a similar conversation and result, just a little bit further. All through the night, we travel.

Three-quarters of the way through the jar, I finally spot the welcoming glow of Charleston in the twilight.

going home . . .
only my shadow
knows where I’ve been

First published: Narrow Road Literary Journal, April 2019
Pages 40-41

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

Deluge

Richard Grahn

On the therapist’s couch, I wonder aloud what it would be like to bundle all the pain I’ve ever experienced together with any future pains, to feel them all at once and be done with it. I mean everything, from the hangnails, slivers, cuts, and bruises, to the pain of lost relationships and death. I think how overwhelming it would be, how completely unbearable. Still, if getting it all over in one great rush was possible, would it be worth it or would it kill me?

a river overflows
its banks . . .
silence

First published: Narrow Road Literary Journal, April 2019
Page 39

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

Breakthrough

Richard Grahn

Keys

I see a light through the keyhole while fumbling with the keys to my imagination. The faint sliver penetrates the darkness just enough that I can tell it’s there. I try the first key. It doesn’t fit. I try the next and the next. Each is another mismatch. Finally, the last one slips into place. The lock clicks as the key twists. I turn the knob. The door swings wide and daylight spills in.

spring morning
I follow a bee
to the honey

First Published: ColoradoBoulevard.net Poet’s Salon
https://www.coloradoboulevard.net/poets-salon-opening-doors/

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

The Other Side of Midnight

Richard Grahn

A Medication Journal Entry

March 13, 2018 – My energy normally fluctuates. This piece was written over a period encompassing numerous cycles of said fluctuation.

I’m sitting here typing—trying to write a haibun. The problem is that the medication is getting in the way of my brainwaves. When I’m in my manic state, thoughts flow over the dam in a steady stream. In my supposedly-appropriately-medicated state, the proverbial spillway seems to run a bit dry.

blackened fog
hides the moonlit sky . . .
moths gather in the shadows

Bi-polar disorder is fun, well, that’s until I start thinking I can run the world. Then things start to get a bit complicated. It’s hard to describe when these fingers don’t even have the energy to manipulate the keys. The clock on the wall is ticking. Dust is gathering on the bookshelves and the rays of sunlight have vanished into the solemn hour of midnight.

awake in a dream—
reality bites
my dog

What I know about mental illness is that stability comes with a price tag. To have lived a life benefiting from the adrenaline rush of mania seems at first to be a blessing. But then there’s the curse of grandiose thinking and risky behavior not to mention depression looming on the other end of the bridge.

Here, in the middle of that lonely bridge, there stands a fairy with a medicine box clutched in her outstretched hand. Here, there is no turning back. Here, there is no empathy, no emotion played away on the black and white keys of a grand piano. Here I’m just another cardboard silhouette casually propped up in a department store window. Here, there is no shore. Time traces fingerprints on the window. The window opens and I step out onto the crowded street.

got a problem?
take a pill . . .
follow the winding stream

I take a careful step or two, stagger and then stand still. I pause for another breath and then lean into the wind. I’m not sure where I’m headed but I think I see a light ahead. This dream may really be for nothing but nothing’s ever felt so real.

somewhere buried
deep inside—
a clock-spring marking time

Originally Published: Scryptic Magazine, Issue 1.4

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

Table Manners

Richard Grahn

Words are food, some sweet and succulent, others rich and savory. Some are bland, some are juicy, and some will burn your tongue. We’re in a garden of words. We put them in a basket and then serve them on a plate. Each morsel has its place in the meal of life we bake. Let’s gather all the words and have a feast.

writing it all down . . .
another way of speaking
with your mouth full

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

Moving On

Richard Grahn

Moving is no fun, but after living in a nursing home for over two years I find it to be an adventure. My stuff, those things that have been languishing in storage all this time, is finally in my possession again. I am rediscovering myself one box at a time. Each box is filled with memories that make looking back both painful and liberating. This vial of Herkimer diamonds, for example, a gift from my favorite rock hound, Grandpa . . . old birthday cards from people who no longer remember my birthday . . . pictures of my last girlfriend . . . aha, my favorite slippers!

Freedom is exhilarating. Not that being cooped-up kept me from expressing myself or expanding my horizons. Heck, during my stay at the nursing home I wrote over 500 poems, made friends outside the home and explored the microcosm of a world around me with staunch enthusiasm. Still, I thank God I’m on my own again.

summer symphony . . .
oh how the meadow
explodes with song

Reborn, my world is full of new and second chances. Now, each memory, each opportunity, each dream is a reason to grow. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a new man, a new creation.

lightning strikes
as the earth keeps spinning
he climbs the mountain

Haibun Today — Volume 12, Number 4

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Sep-Dec 2018, Tanka, Uncategorized

Meditation (sequence)

Richard Grahn

ommmmmmmmmmmmm…

chanting to the echoes
of dewdrops in a teacup
lips invoke
the ancient songs
of life

where petals fall
into the pond—
a blossom
opens up and shares
its secrets

between what is
and the great beyond
an ocean
in a seashell
pounds the shore

one moment and no more
to spend inside eternity
to leave behind
what’s never been
and seek what’s meant to be

…shanti

First Published: Atlas Poetica — #34, September 2018

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Poems, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

The Last Exit

Richard Grahn

It begins somewhere in the nebulous inklings of REM sleep, at just about midnight, as we’re speeding down a quiet wooded road. Sara has the wheel in a stranglehold. We’re in the midst of a major tiff.

From out of the darkness, a pair of glowering-white eyes suddenly appears in the headlights. Instead of hitting the brakes, Sara flips the overdrive switch. The car leaves the ground with a whoosh and is quickly transformed into a flying carpet in the shape of a raven. Gravity pulls at the pit of my stomach. Sara is nowhere to be seen.

My temper slowly settles to a simmer as the raven-carpet soars higher and higher into the moonless, starlit night. Soon the earth vanishes, and the rug pulls over next to a narrow set of stairs stretching upward in the direction of the constellation Orion. Three hula dancers step forward to greet me with leis in their outstretched hands. They lead the way, swaying hypnotically in the starlight, strewing petals along the steps. Together we climb into an endless realm of sky as my thoughts reach out for Sara.

oh, that I had never left
such echoes in your ears . . .
butterflies
morph into wolves
feasting on my words

Saint Peter stands at the top of the stairs next to Sara and an archangel wielding a trumpet. Suddenly, the horn sounds and the stairs fall away.

Falling is far from flying. There’s no bottom to space. Stars whiz by as a cold sweat pours out onto the sheets. The dream ends with a lurch, and I wake up feeling unworthy.

Haibun Today Volume 12, Number 4, December 2018
http://haibuntoday.com/ht124/TP_Grahn_TheLast.html

Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Uncategorized

Before Now

Richard Grahn
What is a memory? Is it a map or the terrain, an illusion or reality, a blessing or a curse? Whatever it is, this one is mine and it must be tangible because I’m about to share it with you . . .
 
Leaves have transformed into washes of amber and scarlet.  Wind rushes through them in great whooshes. I watch as the laden branches bend and sway, waves of color sweeping a cloudy sky. It’s just a little bit brisk today but I don’t really notice because I’m all immersed in the essence of autumn.
 
From out of the corner of my ear, I sense my mother calling, calling me for whatever. It’s easy to pretend not to hear. I’m only ten (with the attention span of a two-year-old) and I’m busily watching the wind, not strictly abiding by the usual mother/child code of conduct. This time I’m late for lunch. Now I hear her screaming. The wind is no match for her fury.
 
I remember sitting in the highchair for a full hour after lunch as punishment for my noncompliance. Looking back at it, it was a small price to pay for my moments of reverie. Mom and I were eventually able to laugh about it all right before she died. Her screams still persist but I’d rather spend my recollections absorbed in the sound of her laughter and the many shades of the wind.
 
damn distracting tune
stuck in my head
bubblegum on a shoe
Blog, Blog 2019, Jan-Apr 2019, Prose Poetry, Tanka, Uncategorized

Center of the Universe

Richard Grahn

in the fields
where I used to play
the world has changed . . .
everything seems smaller
even blades of grass

What you saw on that empty hillside many decades ago, I’ll never really know because you took that vision with you to your grave. What you made of it though, remains a pleasant memory even if time has not wasted any time in etching it slowly away. The shelves in the gun-room have other people’s stuff on them now. The cobwebs in the attic are new. The rock garden has been ripped out but ants in the yard are still building castles in the sand.

I can remember the creaky sequence of five doors opening and closing through the garage and into the kitchen. A wooden thunk, a spring, a click, a gentle yawn, a clunk. Did you purposely build that into my memories of you? I mean, there you were on the foundation of your dreams raising a home where I could come alive. What I took away from that is nothing less than the stuff of a mythical adventure.

Still, it wasn’t a structure that stood at the center of my universe. It was you. Wood and stone and plaster were no match for your whit, patience, and capacity to love and forgive. What you built beside that little hill can’t be measured with watch or stick. Every year the leaves come falling down. I’m sorry I can’t rake them all but that never really mattered to you, now did it?

dreams conceived beneath the stars
have returned to the meadow
where life remains
a poem on the lips
of a child

First Published: Atlas Poetica #34 — September 2018

Note: This contains a change in the date reference from “a century or more” to “many decades.” to be more historically accurate.