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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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NATHAN A. BAKER
Cardiac Intensive Care
Two months have passed in a blur Of hospital rooms and intravenous tubes. April now, and the groundhog barely Was out of his hole before silence Smote with vengeance, plugging To the very heart, biting deeply Into flesh long cherished… Love is a fleeing thing opening Fully only to fade like an orchid Half hidden and known only to a few Some daring souls still venture Into life’s stagnant swamp waters To share the fellowship of love’s suffering Being conformed to a more glorious image Lunatics His was a red dirt road Before the state covered It with crush-and-run gravel: This cut down on the dust But did little to help with his Ability to steer a vehicle properly: At eighty miles an hour In complete darkness Dad was good at navigating Always using the stars To chase the changing moon; He almost caught it once Just before it disappeared Crescent–shaped and waning… Death’s Song Reality bends a bit with his second Shot of whiskey and he feels the sharp Release of thorny burrs on dreary flesh; Peaceful waves of inner quiet slowly Rise as relaxation’s roar taps spine Its velvet white noise playing a muted Symphony of masterful proportion: Dressed in layered cotton purest white A chorus sings, voices rising and falling Like wind blown waves of autumn grain. A sound at the door brings him back… He leans forward rising up from chair As metal-jacketed bullet rips naked flesh Pinning him to his seat for death’s encore. Nathan is a carpenter/poet living in the mountains of Tennessee. His poetry has appeared at Red River Review, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, Lily, Underground Window, Zafusy, and Blue House. |
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