Quick Tour

Quick Tour

In each backyard outside

Tokyo rice paddies say,

“Make do with less.”

On the way to Fuji

the bus says, “It’s a long

climb, but worth it.”

Too soon we board

the jet to China.

Too late to ask

the crow who woke

us in the hotel,

“Have we met before?”

                    —Donnell Hunter

                            29 February 2012

Off Line

Off Line

What happens when the postman

and inspiration go on holiday?

For one thing you save a stamp.

Your philatelistic self

tries to help, but you gave up 

collecting some years past.  

If there were rain, you could count

the drops, transliterate their rhythms

into beats, into iambs or dithyrambs

no one else understands.

That’s what makes a good poem,

someone says.  I know what Hugo

would say, but I’m too much

a gentleman to say it here.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                       28 February 2012

On This Day

On This Day

Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.

            —Abraham Lincoln, 27 February 1860

On this day in an election year

ungainly Abe stood up, ill-dressed,

and addressed the burning issue

of the day.  He told us what we knew

was right but feared those who crowed

louder and cowed the cowardly shadows

of our selves to silence rather than rock

someone else’s boat lest waves

make our own lives tippy.

At the end of his speech the crowd rose

to its feet.  Three months later he won

the nomination that made him president,

perhaps our greatest, and the first of four

brought down by assassins too cowardly

to let a good man live.

Have we learned what he taught?

Do we believe that “right makes might”

that an honest man is greater than a strong?

Or do we cower underneath the politically correct,

even when our own souls shout

that we are wrong?

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                          27 February 2012

The Naming

The Naming

I think of Adam when beasts

and fowls were brought to him

for names.  How did he keep

them straight?  Carolus Linnaeus

not yet born, the language of phyla,

genera, species unavailable until

after Babel.  Especially the fowls

where male and female differ so

much they could come from

separate planets for all he knew.

And he did this all alone, we read,

without a help meet for himself. 

After it was finished, he slept

a well deserved rest and woke up

with a scar on his side. 

He opened his eyes and before

him saw the help he hadn’t known

he yearned for—the mother

of all living—as different from

himself as birds of Paradise.

One last name to come up with. 

He thought hard for us all,

with no swerving, and called her Eve.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                       25 February 2012

Soliloquy

        Soliloquy

Once you finish your coffin

you knock on wood and wait

for a knock at the door.

Or for the dog to come back

from his amorous night abroad. 

Twice a day the tide comes in. 

Its rip beats a swift retreat

at the close of the third act

you watch all your life after

the curtain is drawn.  The lines

you thought you knew by heart,

you forget and have to ad lib. 

Maybe your lines will be better. 

Maybe no one will notice

your exit left, the heroine still

on stage for her soliloquy.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                           24 February 2012

911

911 Goes Digital

Thank you for calling 911

and for generous support

our voters gave last election

to pass the bond now extending

service to five counties

and updating state of the art

equipment such as this automated

system so we can be more

efficient even when operators

take their coffee breaks.

This call may be monitored

for training and quality purposes.

If you are calling from Jefferson

County press 3.  From Madison press 4

from Fremont 5, Clark 6,

or Teton 7.  If you do not know

which county, press 8, then enter

the number of your telephone.

Thank you.  You pressed 5,

which means you are calling

from Fremont County.

If this is correct, press 5

again and wait further instructions.

Thank you.  If your emergency

is fire, press 7734.  For poison

or drugs, 7735.  Heart attacks,

press 7736, drownings 7737,

dog and snake bites 7738.

If none of the above, 7739.

You pressed 7736

which means a heart attack.

Press 7 to know what to do

before the ambulance arrives.

Thank you.  If victim is still

unconscious, keep him warm.

He may be going into shock.

If not breathing, apply CPR

if you’ve been trained or press

732 for quick instructions how.

Press 733 if the victim can still

speak and let him tell the nurse

who will answer if she is not

on the other line.

This completes our automated

response.  For a repeat

of these instructions press 1. 

Otherwise, press pound

after the tone to give

your address and tell

the technician how the ambulance

or fire engine can find your home.

Have a nice day. Thank you

again for calling 911.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                     

New Perspectives  accepted fall 1992

Knick-knacks

Knick-knacks

The knick-knacks we pass on

may be discarded, given away,

or burned. No one but we

can appreciate what they signify.  

Sometimes a year, more often just

a day we were together where

we’d never been and wanted

to remember Bali or Japan, or

sailing up the Yangtze, freezing

at the tip of South America’s

Tierra del Fuego: Fire Land.

The artisans who carved or cast

these knick-knacks may have been

grateful we could appreciate

the work of careful hands.

They had lives to earn, much harder

than our own.  And so we brought

a piece of them to far off Idaho

to rest on a shelf and be dusted

off from time to time, as we

remember traveling together

through this world abroad or home.

When we pass on, we pass

these knick-knacks to another

generation who may never go

where we have gone.  Maybe

they’ll remember who we were.

Maybe they will know how much

we loved them and each other

no matter where we travelled,

no matter what we brought home

to leave together in an empty house

long after we were gone.

                   

—Donnell Hunter

                                      22 February 2012

River Rocks

River Rocks

Sometimes the river is not ice.

But we have nothing to ask.

We could listen, like river

rocks do, perhaps learn what

the current is trying to say. 

Little sprays burst for a moment,

fall back in the stream.  Maybe

they tell us what we wanted

to know when we fell and ice

kept its own counsel last winter. 

It didn’t even say, I’m sorry

or I told you so.  But now the river

is free.  All sorts of sounds

make sense.  Maybe we should

shut up and listen, like my brother

said at Lake Powell, and be,

like the rocks, quiet one day.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        21 February 2012

                                      

Sestet

Sestet

For him there are no strangers.

He knows each one by name.

No favorite nieces, sons-in-law,

he loves us each the same.

As his children should not we

love each other for eternity?

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        19 February 2012

Shop Project

Shop Project

The trouble with finishing

my coffin is what’s next?

And where do I store it

or

is that a who question?

The irony is someone

else gets to decide how

or where to bury me.

          And    

just last week I learned

you don’t really have to buy

a coffin.  You can rent

one for a slight fee.

But

who would want to use

it next?  In the lining

would she find stray

bits of me, such as

a

fingernail or gray hairs

which are made of dead

cells anyway?  Do I really

want to end this project

or

start something less grave?

Maybe a knick knack to put

on a shelf someone else

will have to dust off

after

my dust to dust returns.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        18 February 2012                                 

The Great Wall

The Great Wall

When you stand on the Great Wall

of China it seems to go forever.

They say you can see it from the moon,

but the last moon I was on

was my honeymoon.  I didn’t look

for any walls.  There were so many

surprises I couldn’t take it all in.

It went on and on.  It still goes on.

When we went to China, we climbed

the Great Wall.  We could see the moon. 

I don’t know if anyone up there

was looking down, but we didn’t care.

We were together.  In China,

a place we never dreamed we’d be

that first morning of our honeymoon.

And they were right, it never ends.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        17 February 2012

The Amethyst Gate

The Amethyst Gate

                    Your old men shall dream dreams.

                               Acts 2:17

You came in to the City of Light

through the Amethyst gate and I

through the gate of Topaz.  Together

we read the Great Book of Life to find

our names and the names of those we love.  

Trumpets sounded their songs of joy.

Angels sang praise through streets of gold.

The Bride and her Bridegroom greeted us there

at the wedding feast where night is unknown:  

Welcome.  Welcome our friends.  This dream

is without beginning of days or end

of years where time never was.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                       16 February 2012

Surfing

Surfing My Computer on a Snowy Morning

On an Internet list, “Five Hundred Best

Poems,” my friend has written three.

And they are not his very best, 

but they are better than all the rest. 

No mention is made of me.

I surf the twenty screens again,

the poetical hall of fame, but dare

not ask, like Robert Frost’s horse,

if some mistake left out my name.

Another list, “Five Hundred Worst,”

I don’t dare open up.  It’s not

that I fear what I might find,

but viruses are all around.  “Let

the dead bury the dead,” I say,

Maybe I won’t write today.

I still have promises to keep.  

I ought to finish my coffin this week.  

There are boards to sand and axes

to grind before I sleep.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                            15 February 2012

Valentine

For My Valentine

In my worst nightmare I’m young

again and realize I have yet to learn

everything that required pain to be

who I am today.  Being old is bad

enough but to be young again?

No thanks. 

My Valentine was there, pretty,

but not as beautiful as she’s become: 

sparkling eyes, patient (could I

be the cause of that?) a friend

to everyone she meets, and kind,

especially to me.

                        —Donnell Hunter

                                                    14 February 2012

Prematurely

Prematurely

Alas, poor George is dead, prematurely

the paper said, at eighty-six.

How long does it take a man

to grow up?  Is there hope

for me?  Have I yet to reach

my prime at not quite eighty-two?

Will I have to ripen, maybe rot a little,

before it’s safe to fall from the tree?

Maybe I should buy a bolo tie,

go square-dancing tomorrow night,

allemande left and right, bow

to my corner lady, dos-y-dos.  

I hope I don’t fall flat in my cowboy

boots.  A sad sight for my grandchildren

to remember as they sashay the rest

of their lives a right and left grand home.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        13 February 2012         

Power Failure

        Power Failure

I wake to dark, no sounds

except your breath beside me

in the waterbed, our wayward son

downstairs asleep, the neighbor’s

piranha resting its jaws.

No switch turns on.  Power failure,

I think, rising light as air and gliding

past the door.  Maybe I’ll just forget

to shave, go to work, pretend everything’s

the same.  I dial the power company.

Line busy.  Someone else has made the call.

Outside the snow stays deep, leaves silent

since November.  Beyond the tower,

faster now, I begin to remember: 

where did the dance begin?

I didn't mean to leave you all alone

to light the fireplace.  The woodbox is full.

I unplugged the drain.  The carpenter

can fix the roof.  As for the rain,

ask windows.  Or clouds.  Or ask

the glass you hold before your face

each morning when you comb your hair.

                              —Donnell Hunter

Northwest Magazine  accepted January 1990

Promises Made in the Dark  1992

Autumn Blaze

Autumn Blaze

With no reluctance maple gives

up green.  Chlorophyll breaks

down, and for a fortnight

all its complements shine.

Red is filial in this light

in this fortnight of fall,

this blaze of praising God

the father who made us all.

                    —Donnell Hunter

                            10 February 2012

Hillside

Hillside

On the hillside each bush

is a world of its own.  We drive

by oblivious of branch and root.

But in autumn every leaf

turns scarlet and shouts its joy

for all the world to see.

Maybe we stop at the turnout,

take five minutes from the turmoil

of our lives, a quick photo

to remember Icarus, his fall,

his white legs, the green water,

then hurry on our way.

                    —Donnell Hunter

                            9 February 2012

                                      

Eavesdropping

Eavesdropping

Who pays attention to syntax

will never understand. 

Who pays attention to the

flutter of the brain? 

No one,  I hope, who lives

in this now town.

Let us go then you and I.

Let us go down for there is space.

Let us go down and confuse.

Let us go down and take away time.

Take away time.  

Will there still be sequences?  

Or only consequences?  

The truth is in New Mexico

and in the pudding.

Let us go then. 

The dewdrops from the eaves

are you and I.  Let us go down

and see if facts by themselves can take fire

and learn Finnish with its twenty-seven

cases, or are there twenty-nine?

Let us pretend.  Let us go down

where evenings meet underneath the sky.

Do you dare eat a peach?  

Take away time and who will drop

a question on your plate? 

Take away space and you are left

to sort through twenty-seven cases

of fruit (or is it twenty-nine?).

If I take your case, my friend,

my fee will be fee fie fo fum. 

I lost my sense of smell after the war.

Which war?  There were so many.

Start with Michael and his arch-

angels on their way back through

the arc de triomphe from Russia

with neither love nor hate nor victory.

Let us go then, you and I.

Let us take that long walk back

across the Paris Chinese border.

Let us go down where there is space

and eaves to drop their dew drops

from the shingles of the world.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        8 February 2012

Winter Wren

Winter Wren

We wanted to sing

something new, but all the notes

were taken.  Half tones,

overtones—each had

a name someone else had come

up with.  Maria,

couldn’t help us.  She

had problems of her own.  Trees

lapsed to silence on

the west side of town.

Scary, but we ventured in,

one step at a time.

Darkness gathered round.

Then light came with cascades of

joy and melody.

Hidden underneath

a leaf a wren sang a new

song before the throne.

             

       —Donnell Hunter

                            7 February 2012

                                    

Anticipation

Anticipation

                    Now of my threescore years and ten,

                          Twenty will not come again.

                              —A. E. Housman

                                       

In my case four times twenty years have come. 

Eighty snows, eighty springs, buds and blossoms

faded, gone.  Sunrise, moonset, through the trees

no one could be happier with these

than I as I await the Eastertide

with you, my sweetheart, three score years my bride.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                            6 February 2012