Poetry: Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney
Night

Slides under door jambs,
pouring through windows,
painting my room black.

This evening was spent
watching old movies.
Song-and-dance actors
looping through gay,
improbable plots.

All my plates are put away,
cups hanging on hooks.
The towel is still moist.

I blow out cinnamon candles,
wafting the air with spice.
Listening now to heat
sputtering and dogs
barking at winds.

Winds pummel skeletal
trees as the moon’s big
yellow eye haunts shadows.



Imagine

Imagine to be a bird
slicing air with wings.

Up up over that horizon
soaring through clouds
away from solemn earth.

Shining, shimmering
far above this sphere
into  clear blue light.

Cutting through sky
gliding over oceans
eyes open all seeing.

Awake all day all night
brushing rushing
against the four winds.

Imagine to be a bird.



Nightscape

Fog horns sound though
air soaked in blackness.
All evening long listening
to hiss of trucks, cars.

Shadows brush across walls
as trees trace their branches.
Gathering and waving
together then swaying apart.

While I sleep, stars glide
through heaven making
their appointed rounds in
ancient sacred procession.

Dreams as smooth as rose
petals spill into my mind
growing wild patches in
this dark garden of night.



Another Night

Once again waking
to flashing blue lights.

More guns,
more assault weapons,
more mass shootings,
more death.

Darkness pierced by sirens,
angry screams,
air spinning with smoke.

Blood on streets
slick and slippery.

My weary eyes want
to stay shut and
my lips pray for
long nights of silence.

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