Backstage at The Firmament

By Joseph Hesch

Come the Fall, the sky grows wider,
blacker, starrier as each night
the trees undress and become skinnier,
like movie starlets
trying to make a name for themselves
above some blockbuster's title.
I become smaller now, a bit less significant
against the ever more vast darkness.
If that net of stars should drop
upon the now-drowsy Earth,
I bet I could slip through it and
peek backstage at The Firmament,
catching angels and gods in dishabille,
like the maples and starlets,
their wings and auras hanging from hooks
fashioned from mortal prayers
for another good harvest
or more nights like this.


Image: EQUINOX, by Alison Jardine

My Island

By Joseph Hesch

The autumn rain lifted overnight,

and in the morning our road
seemed a seascape as I looked East,
a long black beach curving ahead of me.
The puddles were sun-mirrored tidal pools
surrounded by the final tossing
of russet shells from the oaks.
Above, a grand artist,
with wind-blown flourish,
had dry-brushed strokes of gray
over the white impastos He scattered
across a canvas of palest blue infinity.
And I, the sleepy suburban Crusoe,
breathed the sweet breeze of morning.

Oh, I’m as tired of writing sad, breast-beating, introspective poems as you probably are of reading them. So today, I went back to my initial source of inspiration. Pardon the pun, but I went back to Nature. My morning walks with Mollie almost always provided my groggy brain with some poetic fodder--shuffling little old men, honking geese, neon prisms of broken ice—but this one was as simple as it gets. I just looked at the road and sky and sucked in a breath of elation.

I decided to post this little poem for Week 10 of dVersePoet Pub’s Open Link Night. If you like to read poetry from a world-wide cast of verse wranglers, you really should pay a visit to the pub, where my friend and poetic fairy godmother Claudia Schoenfeld is in charge tonight. And don't be afraid to leave a comment here and there. Especially, well...here!

No Encore

By Joseph Hesch

Autumn came on-stage
right after Summer
finished its hot set.
In its unfettered joy,
the audience of maples
clapped their weather-reddened
hands off.
This begged the question:
Was this standing "O"
for the warmup
or for the headliner?

Secret Harvest

By Joseph Hesch

They hide their faces

like pickpockets,

pulling ruby and garnet

from the Macs' green folds and

from the secret places of Northern Spies.

Black and brown folks, shivering

in a northland that knows mostly white,

from the bosses' faces,

to its mountaintops, 

to its Aprils.

They work hard, paid maybe enough 

to support their families and a life 

that sends them to places that 

will never be their home.

That’s why they hide their faces,

so they won’t have to go Home.

But Federales with badges and

cameras are always trying to

send them back.

Back to El Salvador,

to Jamaica, 

or to Mexico.

After they climb from the ladders

for the last time this season, and

gently unload their treasures into

great grey boxes that dot the orchard,

all the pickers want is to trade

the red gems for some green to travel

to Louisiana for the rice,

to Florida for the celery, or

to the grocer's for their kids.


Autumn is, give-or-take, a couple of days away. This time always puts me in mind of my days in the North Country of New York. Apple country. It also reminds me of a story from when I was working as a baby reporter. I was sent to do a simple apple harvest piece at an orchard near Plattsburgh. There were quiet people all over the place, most of whom would never make eye contact with me. After talking to the owner of the place, I stepped away a bit and pulled my camera out to take a few "atmosphere" shots to illustrate the story.

"No photos," the Boss said. "Put that camera away."

"But I'm just taking a couple of shots for the story. It's such a bucolic scene and..."

"No photos, I said." The Boss sounded pretty stern, but I tried igmoring him and looked through my viewfinder, composing what I thought would be my only shot.

I felt his hand on my shoulder and when I turned, he put his hands on his hips, pulling the front of his jacket open and revealing a revolver attached to his belt.

"No photos, yes sir," I said. And hauled out of there back to Plattsburgh.

When I got to the office, my boss explained the fellow at the orchard was protecting himself and his workforce, which was comprised of more than a few "illegals."

Like I said, I always remember this story when the first batch of apples enters the house. You don't think he really would have shot me, do you?

"Secret Harvest" is my post for today's dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night, which I had the priviledge to host last week. Check it out and enjoy some of the fruits of a world-wide array of special poets.