by Peter Zelchenko August 14, 2009
Here are two poems by Phyllis Meirovits Zelchenko (my mother), from her 1998 collection City Flowers.
You are not here. Rain flows from all around
And runs its brash way down the mountainside.
The running water sprouts into the wide,
Wide valley, digging branches through the ground.
Wet fingers slide until the earth is drowned
In gloss. These clouds that stack the sky now ride
A windy freight train. Companionship denied,
My lonely crossings thunder silent sound.
It's twenty after nine on Monday night.
The storm rolls on its tracks to other stops.
Now just the memory of rain remains.
(Dark space leaks stars where wounds bled jagged light.)
When wind wisps flip the leaves I drink the drops,
Tasting your eyes, and walk the drier lanes.
Ulysses, listen to this song
Even though the tears are tied
Tight in the air
Waves take a reef
Caught in the hair
Unsmiling of the
Singer where ashore
No light will bring her
Dried in the splash of time
Forward and back
Again we fling her
Sing though she may
This is December. Bring her
To arms tied to the timbre
The sound is years. Eyes blind,
Hands tied behind, her
Tapestry looms. She
May weave and unweave memory
To see him
Open the door to home,
(At his back roar and rush fade
A stillness is in his ears)
(c) 2003-2009, Peter Zelchenko and Gapers Block