Bury this Universe

Sunset,
you look
stunningly poetic.
Moonlight,
you feel
amazingly magnetic.

Dawn,
you quickly
break our sleep.
Rainbow,
you briefly
cause us to weep.

Thunder,
you electrify
our sight.
Hurricane,
you swirled
our light.

Star,
you marry life
to death.
Planet,
you merge caution
to breath.

Mother,
you have more ghosts
to curse.
Father,
you shine throughout
this verse.

 

My Father, Bipolar Showman

My father came into this world
too early.
He left this planet unwillingly
even earlier.

Premature.
Lacking ripeness
but still trying
to produce fruit.

Turning from this father with playful
ambitions
into that grandfather with calloused
dreams.

Mysterious.
Pilfering puzzle pieces
from your eyes
and misplacing them.

Saying grace at holiday gatherings
but remaining
solemn when words could heal our
emotional cuts.

Forgiven.
Finding ways to grieve
but moving forward
by walking backward.

My father departed this universe much
too late.
He arrived somewhere undefined much
too soon.

 

Pencil

The original memory stick—
capturing what was
what is
and what might be
or could be
or should be

The first magic wand—
turning mystery into comprehension
awareness
and resolution
for what hurts
or what bleeds

The truest best friend—
accepting the faults
the quirks
and the quiet moments
or the raging madness
or the broken promises

 

Christopher Stolle’s writing has appeared most recently or is forthcoming in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Flying Island, Branches, Indiana Voice Journal, Black Elephant, Ibis Head Review, Edify Fiction, The Poetry Circus, Smeuse, The Gambler, 1932 Quarterly, Brickplight, Medusa’s Laugh Press, and Sheepshead Review. He works as an acquisitions and development editor for Penguin Random House, and he lives in Richmond, Indiana.

 

 

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