The Night After Christmas
The wind has blown itself away
and the moon rolls prettily along,
all by way of introduction.
A night as dark as Pluto's cupboards,
moment replicating moment,
and I had wanted to say
that lately I've been thinking
about the dying and dead,
their estates and dire circumstance.
We all lose, and in our loss
we too are lost, time rattling its can of bones,
absence kindling another form of wonder.
The old and thin were once so beautiful
the Fates and Furies had to turn their heads away.
Various gods would interfere, and so on.
There were favoured books and childhood pets.
Discoveries were attested.
Sufferance seemed almost tolerable.
Dawn wedges the horizon, bird calling to bird,
hitting notes long thought imponderable,
our shared experience a rising chorus
soon to be stoppered with an imponderable quiet.
How, like a nova, we came and went.
And how, like a song, we ended.
and the moon rolls prettily along,
all by way of introduction.
A night as dark as Pluto's cupboards,
moment replicating moment,
and I had wanted to say
that lately I've been thinking
about the dying and dead,
their estates and dire circumstance.
We all lose, and in our loss
we too are lost, time rattling its can of bones,
absence kindling another form of wonder.
The old and thin were once so beautiful
the Fates and Furies had to turn their heads away.
Various gods would interfere, and so on.
There were favoured books and childhood pets.
Discoveries were attested.
Sufferance seemed almost tolerable.
Dawn wedges the horizon, bird calling to bird,
hitting notes long thought imponderable,
our shared experience a rising chorus
soon to be stoppered with an imponderable quiet.
How, like a nova, we came and went.
And how, like a song, we ended.
To A Sorry End
A soldier lies dead in a ditch.
Maybe he's you, in another century.
Perhaps this is me, wrung dry
with war and warring.
Rain comes down in a wash of tears.
Blood flow joins with rivulets of rainwater,
dragging his soul to the edge of the sea;
the vagabond soul, the unwarranted sea.
For the dead-tired soldier, time has stopped.
None of the other universes exist.
The latest gods are drunk or sleeping.
Maybe this is a future war
and the soldier has yet to be born.
Perhaps we've mistaken his mother's cries
as yips of jubilation,
her tears blurred in the downpour,
a rain that's fallen since Seneca first moaned
about the twists in the human condition.
Maybe this is Rome after the fall.
Perhaps the Somme, its bloody mud-bath,
death being timeless, a poignant proposition
of loser-takes-all in the come-what-may.
I can't tell you, it's hard to see and say,
the soldier's grimace ringing a bell
but his face unsettled by fear, his likeness
the portraiture of a singular downfall.
Corporal, you had your run, your summers,
the lazy mornings in a lover's bed.
A seed was planted in the heart of a cell,
and now the harvest.
Maybe he's you, in another century.
Perhaps this is me, wrung dry
with war and warring.
Rain comes down in a wash of tears.
Blood flow joins with rivulets of rainwater,
dragging his soul to the edge of the sea;
the vagabond soul, the unwarranted sea.
For the dead-tired soldier, time has stopped.
None of the other universes exist.
The latest gods are drunk or sleeping.
Maybe this is a future war
and the soldier has yet to be born.
Perhaps we've mistaken his mother's cries
as yips of jubilation,
her tears blurred in the downpour,
a rain that's fallen since Seneca first moaned
about the twists in the human condition.
Maybe this is Rome after the fall.
Perhaps the Somme, its bloody mud-bath,
death being timeless, a poignant proposition
of loser-takes-all in the come-what-may.
I can't tell you, it's hard to see and say,
the soldier's grimace ringing a bell
but his face unsettled by fear, his likeness
the portraiture of a singular downfall.
Corporal, you had your run, your summers,
the lazy mornings in a lover's bed.
A seed was planted in the heart of a cell,
and now the harvest.
To Whom It May Concern
I'm writing to say that your product
is the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Not only am I younger and taller,
I grow more handsome by the moment.
Just by being in your product's vicinity
my complexion has cleared considerably.
My teeth gleam and eyes sparkle.
You've boosted my longevity.
Once, I lived a half-life among the lost,
but since using your product
I can run farther, longer, and even do the splits.
Women and dogs adore me.
Strangers compliment me on my vitality.
It's as if I'm another person,
someone who can love and be loved,
someone worthy of their own existence.
is the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Not only am I younger and taller,
I grow more handsome by the moment.
Just by being in your product's vicinity
my complexion has cleared considerably.
My teeth gleam and eyes sparkle.
You've boosted my longevity.
Once, I lived a half-life among the lost,
but since using your product
I can run farther, longer, and even do the splits.
Women and dogs adore me.
Strangers compliment me on my vitality.
It's as if I'm another person,
someone who can love and be loved,
someone worthy of their own existence.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks, his next book, 'Boxing In The Bone Orchard' is coming out in the Spring of 2025 via Frontenac House.
Find his book here.
Find his book here.