Oakland
Steel slugs slam
into black, shattered walls,
dim cars grinding
down sanguine streets
careening
into the black well
of night.
The sun,
dropping into deep,
inky waters
shines
on some other world,
and the pale moon
pours thick silence
into the portals of our ears.
We lift our faces
into black rain,
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poem by Steven Federle
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The Confrontation
The angry sparrow, narrow and light
fiercely pursued the thieving crow
slender beak stabbing
smooth black feathers,
rising and diving,
rolling and turning,
a vicious top-gun
dog-fight.
Then the crow, tired of torment,
set heavily down on the high lamp post
as the small bird circled, crying invective,
taunting the crow to rise again and fight!
but the old crow, patient and wise
settled comfortably for this shrill siege
and calmly waited for the air-show to end.
Finally, exhausted,
the sparrow gave up,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Preparation Day
The light is fading early today.
Rain turns the whole world to night.
I drive through watery streets,
headlights
stretch to bright tapers,
red lamps
softly trailing
blood beneath my wheels.
Death’s details
fill my busy day.
First, the uncut granite,
sorted and sized,
words neatly arranged,
ready to inscribe
the bare facts of your life,
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poem by Steven Federle
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My Sister's Birthday
We watch as toddlers
run squealing through the house,
laughter bounding through bright halls,
a knee-level storm of pure joy.
They punctuate our grown-up conversation
as the slide-show begins.
Now you’re the bright eyed infant!
Mom was so young and pretty
Holding you close
in her strong, gleaming arms,
as the cousins, delighted, cry
“Look! Grandma’s a baby! ”
In wonder we watch
the years of youth and school
love and weddings
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poem by Steven Federle
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A Simple Question
'While I am asking questions which You do not answer, You ask me a question which is so simple that I cannot answer. I do not even understand the question.' Thomas Merton, A Merton Reader,
'And He continued by questioning them, ‘But who do you say that I am? '' Mark 8: 29
Clear day
golden sky
gives way to
black clouds
and I ask,
'why? '
It's a child's question.
Within cities
hard edges, pavements
grey receive the red
tide, heads fall
and lives split open,
spill into
gutters fill,
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poem by Steven Federle
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On the Feast of St. Catherine
The poet on the radio
earnestly read her expert lines
about the sad state
of the world,
the failure
of governments,
churches,
parents,
lovers,
the certain decline of
the cosmos,
the end of the world.
Her lines were exquisitely made,
and I listened with admiration and envy
to perfect rhymes, subtle
metaphor, nuanced images
until I felt both elation and
despair.
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poem by Steven Federle
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The English Teacher
When I told them how Jim Crow
made prisons of
bathrooms, restaurants,
candy stores, schools
and how the school bus forced
colored kids into a ditch,
(too black to ride)
and justice finally failed
even Sunday school girls,
they looked askance,
narrowing their eyes
and asked how people
could be so unfair,
so I showed them.
Six million gone
with the careless wave
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poem by Steven Federle
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Camping at Lake Berryessa
My children slept
on the thin vinyl floor
while above our tent,
just past the dark tree-line,
the Milky Way glimmered
like cool waves breaking
on the black coast
of the deep mountain sky.
All night
the lake whispered softly
under gentle western winds
as egret and owl
kept guardian eyes
on the sleeping
human shore.
While watching my sons sleep,
I heard the low murmur
of wild turkey and possum
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poem by Steven Federle
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Do You Want To Know God?
how can I forgive
the man who
consumes childhood
like cheap wine
who hides behind priestly collars,
wears his holiness like a
circus costume,
and fills young lives
with piercing guilt?
Is there a man
to whom you will not
bend your brow?
who, face-to-face at last
sheds tears of sorrow,
shocked to learn that
in the end,
indeed
you are?
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poem by Steven Federle
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Capitol Corridor
The Capitol Corridor moves heavily through the dark,
crossing the thinly guarded streets, blaring, berating
impatient drivers waiting for flashing poles, sparking
their rage as they glare at watches. The ground shakes,
rolling earthquake, Cyclop's eye, headlight throbbing, crushing
bright straight rails, pounding diesel relentlessly hauling
into no-man's land, receding rails guarded only by brush
and grassy grade and two white wooden crosses, with a basketball
and a balloon for the lost children; caught in the sweep of flashing lights,
they first saw the flash, then felt pain, and then blackness swallowed them whole,
the suicide, the missed warning, the lost opportunity, the crying
mother searching deserted tracks. But tonight nobody's here, no
despairing child, drifting, desultory, home no longer an option; and so
undeterred, the silver and blue train rolls heavily on to Sacramento.
poem by Steven Federle
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