The Taste of Truth

By Joseph Hesch

I didn't know I needed you
even when I saw you everywhere.
We'd never met, but I was sure
you existed, I'd see you
in the faces of the grocery checkout girl,
that nurse in the ER,
this television newswoman.
They all look, sound like you, yet nothing
like you. They are your pale echoes.

You'd sensed me, too. That breeze
that woke you was my breath
on your cheek, that chill at your neck
my fingertips. That sound, my whistle,
that hum of words harmonizing
with your heartbeat, my hymn in
your angel soul. That's what drew
you toward our inevitable collision
in the cave of the forgotten.

And now we reach for one another
in the dark, beneath a duvet of stars,
upon a mattress of space and time.
And it's real. It's your face, crowned
in gold, I gaze at. As no one has before,
it's me touching you, my Diogenesean tongue
seeking truth in your darkest places,
and finding it wrapped around yours.
You taste of it as we untie our bindings.

Night Vision

By Joseph Hesch 

I sat up in bed last night,

drawing darkness around me

like a comforter.

It's okay, we've been sleeping together

for quite a while now.

There are times it sustained me,

as I pulled ever more of it

over my shoulders, or

greedily spooned it into me

until all of life’s color disappeared.

I wonder if you ever saw

my moon face gazing down on you

from the dark firmament

of your bedroom ceiling,

or maybe from your desk,

burning through your clouds

of doubt and fear. I see

your eyes from these perches,

sometimes fierce, sometimes sad,

always shining, either with spirit

or tears.

But this isn’t my light shining on you.

It’s your light and that of all the others

that I reflect back from a

miraculously polished sense of self.

And when, finally, I fully open my eyes, 

and pronounce myself present here,  

I expect your lights to nourish

this once-dark soul, for good and all.

Posting this poem for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. This week it's being presented by my lovely friend, Natasha Head. Why don't you check out some of the other folks who have come to hear Tasha sing behind the bar tonight?

Hiding in Plain Sight II

By Joseph Hesch

I have reached a point at the final crest
of this autobiographic thrill ride,
before the long slow descent to its end,
where I can look back and see
how much of it I’ve missed
by being the close-eyed loner in this seat,
the dust-shrouded outsider,
the look-no-hands clown,
the genderless confidant. 
I realize my pioneering work in camouflaged,
hide-in-plain-sight isolationism
is today’s normal.
And all the other seats appear empty.

These new virtual hermits  
live in their in their cars and cubicles,
behind desks and counters,
and under the covers in thrall of TVs,
computers and smartphones. 
They hide behind avatars, masks and
sullen defenses so the real them
is kept undiscovered –-
a secret for their eyes only. 
If they even open them.

Now on my downhill glide, I’ve started to knock
some of those defenses down – my own and others.
Even if I never make that ultimate connection,
warm form to warm form,
I think the ride will be pretty splendid
in its own right, the bandwidth wind in my hair.
Of course, my greatest fear in this quest
is that I really am alone in this world
of click-to-connect friendships. 
Or worse, I’m just naïve enough
to think I'm not.

Perchance to Dream

By Joseph Hesch

It’s so dark here each night, waiting for
the memorable flight to fantasy,
the fears or thrills that you may have,
but I almost never do. I lay in this bed
with my itinerary made of today’s regrets
and tomorrow’s dread,
dreaming of being able to dream.
It’s like groping in the dark for a shadow,
something I can’t see or feel,
but I know is there, if only I …

I will slip into the black depths of sleep,
a struggling shipwrecked sailor going under,
only to open my eyes to another awakened darkness
hours later, taunted by a clock that shows
I missed rescue once again.
But last night, before I sank back
to the nothing that is my slumber,
this vacuum of fancy, I once more pleaded
with the universe for colorful release.

As I was about to surrender once again
to the vacant sleeping dark, an angel appeared
and beckoned me to join her,
tucking beneath her wing of white .
“Here,” she whispered in my ear,
“hold me and be mindful of now,
not yesterday, not tomorrow. Feel my warmth,
and drop your baggage. You won’t need it
where we’re going.”

I never knew my gloom could transform

into a world of such light and color,
such sound and feeling, such heart-lifting joy.
But it did.
When I awoke, I saw dawn in a light so new,
it might as well be approaching from the west.
Tonight, I will leave the dreary day at the door,
I will root fearsome tomorrow from under my bed,
and I will prepare for my angel to join me
in our dream.

Haiku and Senryu 1

Haiku

Rosy eye closing

beneath purple and red lids–

Fall’s bruised horizon.

As the oak leaves turn,

Nature orders, “Curtain up”–

cue this year’s third act.

Blackbirds harry Hawk 

from their leaf-bare maple home.

Hawk humors them though.

Eyes watch in hiding 

as we walk through red forest;

they fear us; we, them. 

The searchlight full moon

wore a veil of windblown cloud—

a November bride

Chains of starlings stretch,

shivering, from pole to pole—

roadside rosaries

Wind carries the cry

 of coyotes' prey brought down:

White doe runs away.

Senryu

His locked box opened,

she gave flame to his desire—

scarring a true heart.

“I’ll never hurt you,”

Angel carved into his heart –

A promise unkept.

“I’d never do that,”

The angel professed to me –

They all do, in time.

Gratefully, I taste

her Chinese tea and oranges –

Not Suzanne, but close.

In whose image, first,

was the other created—

Man’s god or God’s man?

Hot coffee and gin 

kept him warm every night. 

Anger kept him hot.

Over at dVerse Poets Pub today, my friend Gay Reiser Cannon is discussing poetry forms. She's a treasure house of poetry form knowledge, often beyond my skills. But today she is discussing the form with which I started my journey as what might be called a poet.  That is the Japanese short form style of haiku and senryu.  I've called it writing inside a warm, tight hug. After argued with myself for a while (a frequent exercise that I inevitably lose, one way or another) if I should post any of them on the blog, Gay helped me decide once and for all.  I'll love playing at this form until I can't breathe on a page anymore. That's what they are, my small poetic respirations, how I start each day.