4 Poems by Chuck Collins

THINGS I FOUND IN A DEAD MAN’S POCKET

the song of a bird I can’t see, but I think is colorful

a portion of a cloud folded in half that I suppose is a dream;
unfolding it, it was torn like a dream

wind from the edge of the Grand Canyon 
and the whooshing sound of unanswered puzzlements

the last breath of exhausting spiritual habits

an unforgiveness; small, but with razor-sharp edges

a thank you note from a poet who, long ago, was his poetry student

a handful of rest from the overcast day he read Matthew 11

prayers for his children, like styrofoam peanuts,
filled all the empty spaces in his pocket


FEARS

A blown leaf sets him scampering
to safety between my legs,
like when we covered our heads under desks,
entirely silly sanctuaries from the pesky Russians
who would have disassembled every atom 
in our bodies, and all schools and department stores.

Like the day I froze to the rock face
unable to locate a hold up, and unwilling to
look down on the sharp edges that would break 
bones and force them out of my skin, 
leaving only a bloody pile to be found days later
by hikers with binoculars hunting for birds.

The doctor said I had cancer, the bad kind,
and irrational fear rushed in like it was a
Christmas sale of the one item every kid wanted,
or the river held back for decades by a dam 
that suddenly, without warning, broke 
to hammer downstream towns and livestock.

I’m sure now she wanted me to ask her to dance, 
I eyed her for hours from across the busy hall,
and I almost heard, “No thank you, my boyfriend
is getting punch, and we will dance when he gets back
whispering to one another plans to one-day marry,
and we will put our children in private schools.”


WINTER COLORS

You were every summer shade of life only days
before winter dragged you to the ground, 
like an unkind kid in the neighborhood,
replaced now by winter’s meanness.

Leaves first became the color of life on fire
completely covering the way of my morning walk:
a circus of decaying hues in every direction,
earth’s fragile vibrancy.

Through the skeleton branches I see the world
I haven’t thought of for months of Septembers, 
houses, lots of them, and fences 
I forgot were there.

I see the lake clearer now, where ducks and the 
big white birds with wingspans the size of a man, 
egrets too large to move south, flutter and fly 
briefly when surprised. 


JACK’S MOTHER

So you reach your arms greatly  
around a very large batch of laundry,
using your chin and shoulders in the act,
web-like spread and extended fingers 
careful to catch every sock and undershirt;

this way this mother brings her boy 
tightly close, covering him with her embrace, 
all of him in a mighty scooping into her arms,
she smiles and he smiles as she holds him close 
the afternoon of his seventh birthday.

She delights in this son with his very
fragile imaginings, even when he faced the 
gaping wound in his upper arm and stitches,
pillow wrestled siblings in out-loud laughter,
and teased to tears by a loving older brother.

Mother’s cry for their kids, you know, 
caught some nights wide-awake aware of 
all the harm seven-year olds face; she whispers 
in his ear, “You know . . .” and he 
wiggles for freedom: “I know, Mom, I know. . .”