Church Bell

In a tall brick steeple,
a church bell—
small from this distance—
holds quiet
between the hours, hangs
like a black chalice
inverted yet filled
with an invisible, weightless store
of silent chimes.

Then the hour strikes
and the chimes, taking form,
fly out in formation
to toll the passage of time
across space.

The church bell then
holds quiet again, refilling
its space with silent
tolls of time passing
invisibly, weightlessly.

The Folders

A year after our father died, my
sister found, in his file cabinet,

two hanging folders with my name on their tabs.
Green folders with white metal support hooks.

Whatever documents they enclosed would disclose
what data, concerning me, my father had saved.

As we were fans of each other, I was not
worried what those choices would reveal.

I was worried that to visit any of his choices
would return me to his essence, which already

seemed to rise from the folders like a fragrance.
The essence I’d spent the past year mourning.

His other folders were tabbed as financial and
got shredded, their odorless numbers crunched.

I took the two folders but couldn’t open them.
And they remain unopened in a drawer.

I can’t inhale his essence just now,
so made to mourn him from the start.

Instead, I’ve turned myself into
a classic gray metal file cabinet.

One, like his, emptied out
and left—

for as long as mourning demands—
locked.

Our Moment

We become ourselves
at our moment

of first
astonishment.

Astonished
by beauty, or cruelty, or—

if astonished by change—
by both at once.

Which maturing
moment

instills
in us

the flowing, bittersweet
feeling

of
paradox.

Playground

A playground
in hard rain stands

deserted, swings still, slides
beaded and puddled, heavy drops

jeweling the jungle gym
while trembling

like freshly
deserted

children
left

hanging.

Calm

Still boats
dot the distant horizon.

Fishing and lobstering,
I suppose.

Far from
that stretching line

and near to
this stretching shore

break waves
against

sunken
rock formations.

A whirl
of whitecaps

foretelling,
it seems,

the dusky day’s
final, oncoming events.

Held by the blues
of sky and sea,

I watch and wait—
with later life’s odd calm—

for the shoreline
breaks.

Learn more about Mark by clicking on his bio: https://thievingmagpie.org/mark-belair-bio/