The Eve, the Day, the Joy

By Joseph Hesch

On the Eve and Day of Joy,
the presents were covered
in their smooth and sparkling raiment,
as were the trees and roads
in their fresh-snow greeting card grandeur.
Come the gathering, all those wrappings,
of packages and countryside,
were torn by child and adult,
each in their own way—
hand, scissor, sled, SUV. 
The magic was so quickly broken,
And what was smooth wonder
and sparkling mystery
the night before and at dawn,
had been torn, crumpled, stained
and rendered debris and nuisance
to everyone’s continued joy.
Moms and Dads near-curse the mess
of late-day. Kids ignore or revel in its chaos.
On Boxing Day the broken ugliness
of cold fact will be exposed.
Yet all will be forgotten with the advent
of a new year, a new hope,
a new anticipation
for the sleek magic of the Eve and
the Day we came together
and were joyously unbroken.

Over the Top

By Joseph Hesch

She always had a problem 

with how he tended to over-think, 

over-do, over-reach, 

over-react, over-analyze, 

over-everything.

So, because he loved her so very, very much, 

he tried to change, a total make-over.

He tried to become like he saw her, 

accepting things as they came,
not sweating the small stuff. 

Something he wasn't, really.

He beat himself nearly senseless 

to overcome his obsession

to make a big deal over every

little thing in his life. 

Understandably,
he was perplexed by the how or why, he
underestimated how much 

he’d changed to be the guy 

he thought she wanted.

That’s why he never fully
understood what to do, 

when she said,

“We're so over.”

The Answer

By Joseph Hesch

Outside, early morning, mid-December
and the howling wind is strumming a
C-chord through the trees.
Even above that din, I hear
the familiar tones overhead.

There, moving in a diagonal,
like a sidewinder snaking south,
or a streamer of mercury sliding across
a wobbly zinc tabletop,
are half a hundred Canada geese.

And I shiver. Not because of the wind
and December's cold, but because
the unspeaking natural world had
once again addressed a question
I hadn't even known I was asking.

The question I couldn't
speak or write is answered across
the December sky in that language
without words, the one that speaks
more truth than that of Man:
It's never too late.



As I was working outside the other day, I heard in the distance something I used to not hear until it was just above my head (if at all). There, in ragged V winging south, was the first company of migrating Canada Geese I'd seen this Fall. I'm not sure why, but that incessant honking sound, some overlapping the others as if they were sound shadows, stirs some visceral response in me. I feel somehow energized and inspired. And so I was this time. Seeing them put me in mind of another group I had seen last year. I write about those travelers here.

This Boy's Life

By Joseph Hesch

I took a walk by myself yesterday

and recalled how much I always loved

just walking and watching. 

"Woolgathering," Grandma called it.

"You're wasting time, little boy," she'd preach.

Years and years of it have reaped me a lot of wool,

or maybe just the dust of memories by now.

An ancient tree in the park caught my attention.

It knew I was coming; its limbs waved me down.

And on the edge of the yawning mouth

in the tree's face—a gash big enough

for a bear to hide in—

rose an impudent squirrel.

He hurled me a lesson full of sound and

fury on behalf of his silent old host,

a fiery flicking tongue testifying there's some life

left in the old boy, and chit-chitting his pride

that he's a big piece of it.

That's when I realized how much I loved my

walks and secret conversations with the world.

I don't feel like I've wasted all of those memories.

I carry their dust in my bones, I'm sure.

They just need to be reconstituted

by fresh perspective and the miracle voices.

Now I collect them, commit them to paper,

and share them with the nascent me,

that fiery, furry—or is it wooly?—

young poem maker who

resides inside this dry old hide. 

Photo by Ruban Phukan

Heliophobia

By Joseph Hesch

Too long, I’ve worn delusion as a hood
covering my better judgment, when,
time and again, I tortured myself
with chains of baseless obsessions.
Sense of duty, senseless mooning,
all cloaked in claustrophobic darkness
where, if some small ray of truth leaked in,
I willingly closed my eyes to accept
my next bruising lesson in Life.
I wish I could find that hand,
the one I could trust to lift this hood,
leading me to daylight, instead of
coming down upon it again and again,
beating the emotional daylights out of me.
I’m willing to crack open my eyes
and extend to you my hand in something more
than its defensive or aggressive attitude,
but only if you promise never to use yours
upon me while my back is turned.
Or are you another of my delusions?

Another study of the lonely, those fearful of the light of truth or so deep in the well of depression that all they think they have to comfort them wrapping themselves in more darkness. Heliophobia is my post this week for dVerse Poets Pub's Open Mike Night. Check it out and see what all the joyous noise is about.