Poems
by Bob McAfee

 

Aftermath

 

Pa has been gone for three days, the witch of rain marauding

the valley so strong I daren’t set foot out to find him. Moody

since last year when Ma passed, he walks the high line along

 

the crests, never seems at home in his cottage, more than once

telling me he wished that he would meet a bear up on Carter’s Knob.

Finally, the rain lowers to slow drizzle. I take my Winchester

 

and a three-day pack, set out along Mobley’s Trail, leading

up the scarpment where I know he loves to hike. Path is well-marked

but four hours in, the forest begins to thin, glimpses of sunlight

 

angling through the conifers to paint splotches on the rutted ground

and suddenly the shape of a cabin blooms in the distance. Approaching

the front door, solid but slightly ajar, I call out even though I know

 

no one has lived there for years. As I push open the heavy wood,

grudgingly yielding, I am assailed by the smell of fresh-baked bread

which quickly evaporates into the odors of must and decay.

 

I scan the room. An old wood-burning stove lurks, atop

which sits a rusty coffee pot. In front of the large fireplace, filled

with layers of burnt ash, a very comfortable-looking rocking chair

 

invites me to take my seat. Someone has left an ancient pile of firewood

in one corner. A rough table stands next to a raised bed with horizontal

slats holding a burlapped palette upon which lies a stack of clothing.

 

Against the side of the fireplace, I notice Pa’s burl-tipped walking stick,

heavy enough to shillelagh a man or a wolf, and always in the hand

of my Pa. Sprinting to the bed, I see Pa’s old Stetson sitting atop

 

his neatly-piled jeans and jacket, shirt, socks, even his long johns and boots,

all lovingly arranged and I quickly realize something very bad has happened.

Since his clothes are all on the bed, I doubt he has left this room alive.

 

It can’t be an animal or the clothes would not be folded. Has a human

killed him and folded the clothes or has he lost his mind and run off

naked into the rain so cold he would surely now be dead of hypothermia?

 

Where is the body? I look out the door as the sun re-emerges from the clouds

but all I can see is an old bear at the edge of the trees, regarding me with interest 

for a tantalizing few seconds before turning and disappearing into the forest.

 

 

 

 

 

Into the Forest

 

One day I venture alone

into the forest 

o my naked fear my empty mind

 

I remove a thorn

from the paw of the great cat

how she roars her gratitude

 

brings the wind

to ruffle my tawny mane

how deep my changing voice becomes

 

I free a red fox vixen

from the jaws of a trap

how she teaches me

 

to smell danger on the breeze

my whiskers to twitch

how she fills my mind

 

I can speak to every creature

of the forest

in its own tongue

 

As I approach the river

I see a maiden with injured foot

struggling

 

to escape a giant crocodile 

I threaten the

great beast with my throaty growl

 

speak to it in its own language

“get back to the river for you

are no match for man, lion, and fox”

 

the crocodile 

skedaddles

down to his wallow in the water

 

a great love descends upon me

as I bind the foot of the maiden

carry her tenderly back to her village

 

 

 

 

 

Jamie

 

The evening sun is setting

shimmering and bleeding

I’ve walked the beach for hours

I’m fading like the daylight

 

in the dusk I see a shanty

you are sitting in the doorway

gazing at the ocean

like waiting for tomorrow

 

a sudden rain starts falling

I look around for shelter

you holler out “Hey, Johnny”

motion toward your doorway

 

I join you at the shanty

I’m grateful for the kindness

I say my name’s not Johnny

you say it doesn’t matter

 

we weather out the rainstorm

while I hope it’s never ending

we sit there in the doorway

the waves are getting restless

 

the sky fills up with thunder

temperature grows colder

you take my hand and hold it

to your face without explaining

 

the rain goes on forever

we sit there in the silence

till the storm has lost its fury

the beach is deathly quiet

 

you motion toward the doorway

I know I should be leaving

we’re standing in the moonlight

your face is bathed in magic

 

I want so much to stay there

so much I want to hold you

but I fear the night’s illusion

I turn and lose the moment

I head out along the shoreline

for I need to travel solo

I hear you call “Hey, Johnny”

and I pause for just an instant

 

then I turn and you are sitting

in the doorway of the shanty

gazing at the ocean

like waiting for tomorrow.

 

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.