Two Poems
Doug Tanoury
Time Piece
Yes, I often stand on the front porch
Of an old Victorian house that long
Ago coughed its last breath in a rising
Cloud of pale red dust, to the choking
Noise of walls collapsing, plaster
Ripping, timbers cracking, wrecking ball
Swinging like a black pendulum, as
Heaving groans fade into the dull
Clunk-clickity of brick on brick, and
The tick-tock sounds of settling debris.
Yes, I often stand there, hand tugging
On the handle, fist pounding on the
Battered wooden door that frames a
Tattered screen, listening for the
Rattle of her rosary and the yak-yak
Of telltale floorboards, as I watch
Her silhouette moving through the
Darkened rooms, a shadow never stepping
Near the light, never moving toward
The door.
I often stand there refusing to leave,
Knowing that time is as irreversible
As death, yet defying both, ignoring
The down-in-the-ground-grown-over-with
Grass finality of rigamortized facts,
Knowing in the end I'll win, one day
I'll sprint up the steps, taking two
At a time, the way I used to, and
The door will swing open, she'll
Come out, and we'll sit in the sun
On the front porch steps
Forever.
For Terra
(A Birthday Poem)
Dark haired girl
In a yellow sundress,
Picking cattails that grow
Along the creek in a field
Behind the house,
You return from your walks
Empty handed these days,
Without cattails,
Without daisies,
As if these do not grow
On the fringes of your
Childhood, and Queen Ann's Lace
Is just another weed
In open fields.
Dark haired girl,
Who outgrew the yellow
Sundress long ago,
Is the sky still Mason jar blue
Or does that fade too
With time into overcast gray,
As fields become subdivisions,
And creeks are diverted
Underground in large
Concrete pipes.
Walk with me just once more,
On the path east of the dogwoods,
Calling out the names
Of each tree we pass,
The way I taught you,
When you wore a yellow sundress,
And the creek still ran
Over green mossed rocks,
And cattails grew fat
On thin reeds, just once more,
Let me hear you
Call a birch
A poplar.