Winter Tree

Photo Brian Federle: Desert Tree, Palm Springs, 2016

The winter tree 

does not move.

Its wide trunk 

plunges into graven earth, 

unseen roots, grasping hands

feel deeply the living soil,

hold firm anchorage

against the coming storm,

but rising wood, thin

though strong enough 

to paint slender lines, 

trails into purer air, 

gives shelter

to Christmas birds.

They hunch on stems, quietly

waiting to sing open 

the dawn.

(12/23/2011)

Modern Parable

The evil one

believes that he alone

lives in paradise.

He sees his gold and marble halls

fat tables groaning under

feasts unshared,

worships the idol

in the mirror

and he smiles;

whereas the saint 

labors in hot vineyards, 

wipes brows burned by 

the risen sun, 

creases the fertile earth

and with wrinkled hands

fills the bowls

of the poor,

and God smiles.

(2014 March 23)

 

Wildfire in Paradise

The burnt sky of

Paradise, drifts

towards the sea.

On acrid breezes

ashes fall —

promises scattered

and consumed,

as the sun —

its dark,

bloody husk,

exposed at last —

hangs, ruined.

11/11/2018

America

Deep thunder shakes this warm July evening
and lightning flashes over the waterfront
filling the clear, starry sky with acrid clouds and glimmering rain
falling to the water as children gaze
in shock and awe,
waiting for the next big one to explode.

False bombardment as celebration:

such fits my nation, founded in genocide and slavery,
this nation baptized in the blood and tears
of Navaho and Cherokee and all the tribes of the American holocaust
a nation that devoured one quarter of its sons
in four short, blood-soaked years; my nation,
a nation of efficient bigots and hungry hypocrites,
giving the world Gettysburg and the Trail of Tears
as models for problem-solving;
a nation unlike any other, not able to live up to its promises
because no other nation dares make such promises.

The bright violence of rockets' red glare lights our sky
like the bold Declaration ignited the world, and thunder
rocked mighty kings from complacent belief in their divine rights,
rocked the people of Europe, thirsting for their own rights
and land and a chance to pursue a little happiness;
yes, rocked even distant Asia, deep in its ancient dream
foolish men joyfully following the distant thunder
to seek the fabled Golden Mountain.

The promise was made and broken and made yet again,
and the anger of betrayal torched the cities of the sixties,
and singed our hearts
and in the redeeming pain of change
made them a little less impure.
Yes, we are imperfect,
but we know our sins
and pay for them over and over again,

and to remind ourselves of the debt yet unsatisfied,
every summer we celebrate in the only way fitting for such a nation;
In the starry sky fiercely glowing with liberty -
in the transcendent thunder
of the Promise.

(4 July 2011)

Marshall

I heard the game was tough, and they lost,
despairing in muddy jerseys,
turf jutting from face guards and heavy cleats.

Sweat-stained and sore, they showered,
and the camaraderie of the locker room
broke through the stern silence with boyish laughter.
Weekend plans made, they climbed into the chartered bus
and drove slowly through the misty night
to the airport, to go home, back to West Virginia.

The plane gleamed reassuringly, like technology always does.
The power of the lift, the whine of competent engines
flinging them into the clouds, driving them high beyond the storm
into the clear, star-filled night. But the flight was rough, and
nearing their goal, it happened; a jolting shudder,
surprised looks, and amid the confusion of savage g-forces
suddenly nothing remained but flames
and twisted metal
and silence
on the charred mountain.

This is when I first became acquainted with death.

These were my friends, my old team-mates;
two years before we jogged in the hot August sun
and ranged through snowy October backfields;
like dangerous tigers we hunted quarterbacks,
thinking we were forever young and strong
and invincible.

Jack Rapasy, Bob Harris, and Mark Andrews:

Jack was the joker, but he could catch a bullet
six feet over his head, and leave two defenders
to slam into each other as they met, mid –air,
where he was,
while he ambled smiling to the end-zone.

And Bob could throw that bullet, his baby-face
And million dollar smile belying muscle-thick arms,
rocket launchers, splitting Friday nights with their fire.

But Mark, gentle giant of a linesman, was like my
big brother; he taught me how to shift and pull and trap,
and admired my fierce tackle, my willingness
to sacrifice clarity to stop a power-sweep.

We grew up together, but Mark died far from home.

Their three caskets in our high school gym lay,
while I, staring at glaring metal,
stood silent and amazed
that never would they run,
or throw, or tackle, or smile, or laugh,
or again be.

(6/23/2014)

The Beginning

The road calls

its whispering song

as early trucks whine,

red-shifting down the highway,

past the heavy curtains

of our room.

But we’re ready,

early risers,

eager to begin.

The motel lot is already alive,

as sleepy travelers

coffee steam rising

with the morning mist,

dream of going

to the coast,

to the mountains,

to the desert

To glittering Las Vegas,

Going

to see all the places

In the thick triple A book,

following sure, red lines

on bright, creased maps,

but on my dark dashboard

the glowing GPS,

polite, sure girl

leads the way.

This road has called us

over and over,

and this time

we are going

east,  into the rising sun,

as bright white lines flash

like years in our headlights,

quickly forgotten

and always another

flying into another

never looking back

to see where we were

only seeing now

as this now blurs

into the next now

and the future

never really

is.

But such philosophy

can be dangerous

at 75 miles per hour,

so turning on the radio

we glide down I-5.

It’s a fast road,

but straight as a

boring dream,

until, beyond Bakersfield,

crossing the

high eastern limit

of the great, green valley,

suddenly we break free

into the dry Mojave,

into a space so wide

that the pink, morning sky

arches its bright back

all the way

to space.

Time itself

could get lost here,

but not us!

Time never had a GPS girl

course-correcting,  

cheerful  guide

to lead us

on our summer’s journey

across wide America.

(7/10/2010)

Rose at Nightfall

“God wants to know the divine goodness in us.” Thomas Merton

Red rose flames

in shade of day’s end.

Night sifts gently

through dark trees;

but the rose!

the rose yet blooms;

defies the fall

of night’s certain pall.

7/31/13

from "Memorial"

Brian Federle, born March 4, 1986

Spring  

Seven years after my father died

my first child, my son, was born in spring,

and in the gleaming, sterile room

I first held him in my arms

as, with his impossibly wide, blue eyes

he calmly gazed right into my raw soul,

and I felt in a sudden rush of warmth,

a timeless love

and at last discovered

the reason for my life.

It was then

I understood my father.

In my son’s face I saw my own

and felt my father’s eyes gazing

in warm wonder on me

and I glowed with

unconditional love for my son.