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.

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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.

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a haiku

sundown-
moonflowers
climb my trellis

Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

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a haiku

beneath the rowan
a red kite
broken

Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

 

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Beachcombing by Christopher Chaffin

The Blue Hour

At high tide, the sea ejects
foam and glass fishing floats.
We wait for the waters to recede,
tiptoe around anemones and crabs;
I spot a small green globe.
She says it belongs to a Japanese goddess,
her eyes plucked out by a vengeful lover
and cast into the deep.
I see only an old sake bottle
crafted into a sphere,
etched with sand and netting patterns.
Tomorrow, I will look for agates
while she searches for the goddess’s other eye.


Christopher Chaffin’s poems have appeared in print journals and anthologies. his blog of original poetry can be found at https://cjchaffin.wordpress.com/

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Samhain

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

Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

 

 

 

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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

 

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