stardust

You were the first to show me the Perseids,
to tell me stories about the man in the moon
and constellations whose names now escape me.

We’re all made of stars, you said,
as we trekked up the mountain trail
to find the perfect spot to stargaze.
I had rolled my eyes at the tired cliché.

You were still flesh and bone then, corporeal,
lying next to me on an old blanket
in fields of fireweed and foxglove
as pieces of the cosmos streaked overhead.

I wish I had cared more about such things then.
I wish I cared about them now.
But the man in the moon is gone
and I find it difficult to look to the night sky.

once

I remember
the two of us lying
under dogwood trees,
pink blossoms falling like snow
onto what I thought was love.

The sun was in my eyes
that day and every day after.

There is no need
to look back with longing,
I have no desire to wallow
in tears or pink snow.

I only wanted to say goodbye to you
once.

Monterey

Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me
as I tiptoe along the rock seawall.

He lures me away from my watery home
to old sandstone churches
built by people who would never pray
in the finished chapels.

We wander through music festivals
and artisan fairs full of mild, white cheeses,
dancers twirling about in colorful costumes,
and writers arguing about Henry Miller’s tropics.

But I quickly tire of his melodramatic musings
and no longer wish to relive these moments;
I want to sink back into the bay,

where kelp quivers in underwater winds
and the only stars I see
are the ones suction-cupped to the rocks below.

like me

I can hear the fir trees
cracking and breaking in the night,
their tired limbs laden with ice
and the weight of a new year.

I know that if I look out the window I will see
needles scattered over frozen ground
like lost little children,

like me.

the mourning dove (for Patton)

At first light, I turn my head
towards an open window
and listen to the dove’s lament.
I know his pain. I know his cry.

He weeps in such a way
that makes me wish
I could answer,
but only God or another dove
can heed that call.

I turn my head away from the window,
pull warm covers back over my ears
and wait for him to fly away.

moonrise

Cicadas gather on the grapevine,
a mass of wings and vibrating abdomens.
Males call out to females
but it is the grey squirrels who answer,
chattering loudly as they feast on insect flesh.

I sip cold wine and tap my fingers
on thin glass, watching and waiting.
My phone buzzes next to me;
you, calling, again.
I ignore it and turn my gaze back to the feast.

a haiku

sundown-
moonflowers
climb my trellis

Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

a haiku

beneath the rowan
a red kite
broken

Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

 

Samhain

The veil thins;
I light a candle and wait
for you to come home.

Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

 

 

 

down the rabbit hole

She told me over dinner one evening
that I should switch to white wine—
less tannins and calories, she claimed.

I smiled and shook my head,
a vintage cabernet stubbornly clinging
to my bleached white teeth.

The next day I found a couple bottles
of chardonnay chilled in the fridge,
a note tethered to one’s neck:
Drink Me!

I did not.
Four months later,
we signed divorce papers;
she packed her things and left.

I drank the chardonnay that last night,
dizzied by the herringbone pattern
of the old parquet floor, and wondered
what would happen if I ate our frozen cake top.

Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved