Maybe It Would Have Been A Homer

by g emil reutter

The continuous spasms run the circuit board of my
nervous system, and I have no one to
blame but myself. Yet in this room, a prison for three
days I hear life all around me. The horns of the commuter
trains on the hour and the mighty blasts from the freight
diesels switching racks at Newtown Junction pulling
hundreds of cars three time a day.

And there is young mother yelling on the sidewalk under
my window, I wish she would lose her voice. The old ladies
talk on the stoop, their murmuring puts me to sleep as the
sounds of passerby’s and cars fill the air.

As dusk falls, just a few days past solstice, I think of all those
summers past and baseball. Now in my 56th year I know I can
never go back and never again feel that great joy of when a
ball pops off a bat, lands where you wanted it to. Maybe it
would have been a homer.

Precipice of Winter

by g emil reutter

And on the hill covered in a foot of snow
they gather.

Sleds and spheres they travel up and
down the mighty hill in chaos.

We watch from the porch of the old
museum, remember the past.

And as dusk turns to night the
moonless sky blends into icy hill.

You grab the wooden sled, run, and dive upon
it, take flight as wind catches your hair.

And as the sled soars you soar through memories
laugh as a teenager would.

You climb back to the top, run and fly down the
hill again.

I take a ride or two until we double up, blades
cutting ice until we reach bottom.

And there among the teenagers and parents with
young kids in the darkness of a winter night we

laugh and unbeknownst to those around us, we of
middle age have one last ride on the hill.

Before the FrostFor James D. Quinton

by g emil reutter

I work the back garden, drag bags of mulch to the edge
to prepare for the coming winter. Hydrangea leaves are
yellowing, wilted heads of Black- Eyed Susans hang from
limp stems. I work around Azaleas, Rhododendrons
building small mounds around their base. The sky is gray
clouds turning dark, thunder booms from the distance. I
continue to work toward the annuals. Begonias, Impatiens
already ceding to the weathers’ changes, await the last
deadly frost. I think of covering them over, but prop them
up in the dark wet bark.

We will never have that promised beer or read a poem

in the stale air of a tap room. I will not read that new poem
or story, the ones you left on the tip of a pen. You ceded
yourself before the frost, leaving words full of life, love and
loneliness that like perennials live for another season. Though
I never met you; I knew you from our common bound of
words flowing back and forth across the Atlantic. I work the
garden the way I work a poem, adjusting, crafting it just right.
I think of words, of your words as sadness lingers about me.
I finish the garden as the sky opens, whimpers sheds tears
until the hard early autumn rain drenches me so that no one
can see I am crying with the rain.

Walk Away

by g emil reutter

Confusion ruled and it was
the only stable thing there
was. And they would shout
dance and lay hands on one
another. Declare the power of the
Lord. Speak in tongues and
shake about, fall on the floor
and everyone loved Jesus
and each other.
Every Wednesday and Sunday
repenting would prevail as
forgiveness always followed.

It was almost thirty years ago.
I walked from this great joy.
Never have heard from anyone
there, although I am sure they
prayed for my condemned soul.
I must say I haven’t heard from
God either.  The silence is
peaceful.

River

by g emil reutter

Wind blows west to east
tide of river rises
Sun still as clouds pass
wrought iron fence sits
atop retaining wall
where he stands, cups hands
looks upon waters glare
as Seagulls rest on the
nubs of abandoned pilings

Wind churns along non
existent railroad tracks to
the crossing  sign whose
warning lights no longer blink
as the diminished totem pole
stares blankly at the river
named for a people who
grow fainter each day.

Wind rustles blades of grass
pulls at succulent leaves of
trees that refuse to let go
as the tide goes out crumbling
steps lead to the pebble beach
of another era relinquished to
the squawking of the gulls.

Cards

by g emil reutter

street lights stand guard
above salted sidewalks
sun rises, sheaths of ice
fall from bent tree limbs

heater rumbles, coffee pot
steams, gurgles, oatmeal
pops in microwave

closet doors slide open, closed
cars engines rattle in parking lot
trash truck lifts dumpster
bags thud like hail in an
ice storm

it is Thursday, like any other in
any week of any year. some may
say it is nothing special, this Thursday,
glib and routine

 unless of course you are not
 around to hear the sounds, smell
the coffee, taste the oatmeal and
live the life dealt to you.