poetry

Semper Fi

Photo posted by Ryan Haylett to the 80027 Facebook page.

Semper Fi

a man pulls one pin from his haystack of a home
and finds the sign he needs

the rest of us watch at the ready
internal compass needles twitching

prepared to find whatever meaning
we might be meant to make

from chaos

poetry

cluttered

Donations for Marshall Fire victims collected by Lance Ferguson. Photo courtesy Rocky Mountain PBS.

cluttered

most of us have more than we need
we comprehend when many lose everything
all at once

we teeter toward equilibrium –
my four umbrellas to your none –
and any space that will take it
is flooded with the too-much most of us have

we let out a satisfied sigh
at getting rid of any of it
(stuff, guilt, excess, clutter)

now there it sits
waiting to go home with someone new
but there are no homes to go back to
and new clutter’s the last thing needed

poetry

first glimpse of the burn

first glimpse of the burn

trees still stand where homes do not
our modern lives more combustible than wood
the neighborhoods not quite leveled
thanks to upstanding blackened trunks
an urban forest of ghost trees

but the homes, the manufactured stuff of our lives,
have been stripped from the landscape,
excepting steel car skeletons

imagine all the books offering themselves to air
raining down on Nebraska
the memory foam and down duvets
cans of oven cleaner going off like bombs
baptismal gowns and placemats
Nerf bullets melting
all the photos licked by flames
consumed by a heat furious enough
to wave it all into wind

only leaving our rocky foundations
and silent charcoal trees

poetry

restoration of water

restoration of water

The same clear stream flows from the tap today
but now it’s changed:
they say it’s safe,
which changes everything.

Charlie told us how it was to wait for water
at the mall in Zimbabwe, after things fell apart.
He’d grown up with safe water,
and when things first went wrong
he thought the water trucks would be temporary.
Someday he’d simply turn the tap again.
But, years later, he still waits in line.

When they said our water wasn’t safe
it was the latest in a string of improbable truths –
like December wildfire
like blocks of charred houses
like insurrection.

So, today, when they invite us
to turn the tap and drink,
I let go a caught breath
that’s been squeezing my throat
ever since we stopped
to fill the first jug.

poetry

on the disbanding of the Sifter Squad

on the disbanding of the Sifter Squad

I signed up to sift ash
but within hours
the public health people
warned us to stop.

Isn’t that just how it is these days
when Grandma’s soup bowl
and a couple of drawer pulls
will find a way to kill you, too?

I was looking forward to playing
neighborhood archeologist.
I was looking forward to finding
something someone had lost.

poetry

To Our Mayor

To Our Mayor

We know your heart holds
a thousand holes
as ash settles on us all.

It would be fair if you felt the flames
one burden too many,
if you asked why this, why now?

Instead we see you on the tv
confident and grateful
patient and protective

ably leading us
away from the brink.

We see how you suffer for us –
the late nights and early mornings,
the thick binders, the endless weeds.

You’re our own Jacinda
and we love you.
You’re engineering us a future.
You’re saving us a home.

poetry

aerial view

Photo courtesy of The Colorado Sun

aerial view

the subdivision’s smile
is now pitted
with yawning cavities
each an uprooted family

the open wounds
are ready for rot

what could we plant
in each smoking crater?
whose roots might fill
these aching holes?

my hand restlessly sifts ash
searching for seed

poetry

checking the names

checking the names

my index finger ticks down the names
and finds another family I know

but more than that, there’s the grief
distilled in the very action

so many fingers traced down so many lists
stopped and shaken by what they touch

or who they learn they’ll not touch again
such hope and desperation in this act

caressing the lines that make the letters
that spell out someone’s fate

poetry

after the evacuation order’s lifted

after the evacuation order’s lifted

when you first arrive home
after the town caught fire
things will look the same:

soft slabs of snow will mushroom
atop parked car roofs
and Christmas lights will still wrap trees

it’s not until you reach your kitchen
that the full import meets you –
your home still stands, thank God

and the firefighters and Aeolus –
and it stands at 45 degrees and falling.
one of you starts the pellet stove

while the other takes the truck to find more pellets
and free space heaters
and you quietly begin living a new way.

next you look at the gas stove (impotent)
and realize you haven’t means to boil water
and can’t drink what’s in the tap

so you forage for water, too, life stripped to its elements,
five-gallon jugs filled by a friend
in the next town west, where taps magically still flow clean

and now you learn to pour liter carafes
and even dainty cups after a day’s practice
from what’s usually your campsite stash.

when the large men clomp inside
in their Carhartts and work boots
big beards and cold toes

and give you back warm nights
and hot water, you push gifts into
their wide palms: candy canes and

chocolate bars, gushing thanks, and beer,
and it turns out one lives two blocks away
and his toddler and your little neighbor are friends.

and in the midst of all this confusion
so many new ways of doing/being
there’s also the dark knowledge

that your son’s kindergarten teacher’s home
is now just another smoldering pit
and your dog’s brother now has no yard to call his own,

and 500 neighbors don’t have these inconveniences
of gas and water to deal with now
because everything is gone

poetry

New Year’s Eve after the Marshall Fire

New Year’s Eve after the Marshall Fire

when the only air to breathe
is so cold it burns your lungs
it, too, feeds your cells

in these the days of emergencies
of Plan B or C or D
or abandoning all plans
and surrendering to survival

let us remember
what a gift it is to have cold crystals
descend upon us

what a miracle that waves of fire
and whispers of snow
exist