Poems 2022-2023

by Cannon Hurst

Poems 2022-2023

With a Chill Broken Off from the Tide

The wind howled the willow’s wail,
As the heat huddled the horizon.

Forth came four skips from my father,
And one little wisp from my little hand.

My toes below, rather exposed,
Were curled, by the cold crisp air.

It was late august on Orcas Island,
With a chill broken off from the tide.

So, we left, in search of warmth,
To gather, that which we so hoped.

But the journey back to our camp,
Left my legs near their end.

As my father ventured on,
With sticks for a great big fire.

He leapt across rivers and banks,
An ease with I desired.

Flames began from my father’s hands,
With embers and ashes ever earned.

But my hands were half heated,
And far from forming any ashes.

When my hands are weathered
And my hair turns silver and gray,

Will I be filled with life,
How he was that day?

With embers and ashes ever earned.

This Bird Had Flown

Stuck in traffic on I-5,
We’ve yet to say a word.

Without realizing it, you hit shuffle,
"Norwegian Wood" starts to play.

And suddenly we are in our 20s again,
Lost in a meadow, in love.

I could smell the grass,
Feel the finished wood of my guitar,

As we sang, or rather yelled,
“Isn't it good Norwegian wood?”

Only you stopped after each verse,
To look at the far-off sky.

As we held hands and sat
Still, our breath synced.

Then you began again,
And together we sang:

“Isn't it good Norwegian wood?”

Multiplex
‍

Beauty emerges at the darkest hour.
It sings to me; all I want to hear.
My heart sings to me and it’s all I hear.
I found my true love came from Georgia.
I found my false love left for Georgia.
She didn't know how to hug, much like my mother.
She didn’t know how to hug, my mother.
Adopted, never truly felt loved.
Someone without culture is truly more afraid to be loved
Than someone unbroken from their family tree.
Someone severed from their own family tree.
Not an ounce of Hangul ever seen.
The loved cannot be without the unloved.
Beauty emerges at the darkest hour.

Rivers End

The air wavered under the silky sky,
beneath the helm of the unforeseen
sense of rain that was to come.
the trees followed behind,
while their leaves,
shook and rustled,
wrinkled and dropped,
and blew as the
wind came
crashing
down.

Up the river,
I could hear your voice,
and see the current at which it spoke,
and though your rapids slowed as mine began,
I wondered if our course to the ocean was the same.

But now as the sun begins to set over the ever-homogeneous tree line,
I found myself at the mercy of the trees that tower
over every living thing, only to be ignored, silent,
beyond repair, and seen as nothing more
than a mere morsel of nature.

And
I may hold
some disbelief
that trees live, feel,
and breathe all that we do,
and see all that we see, and hear,
all of which that we speak yet they
remain alone together, outliving the living,
outseeing the seen, and out hearing the spoken.

Maybe that means something
and maybe, just maybe,
you’ll make your way,
down the river to me
but in the end, I won’t wait,
I’ll merely chart a new course.