The Poetry of David Chorlton
Throwing out the Wildlife Calendar on New Year's Eve
There go the wolves that watched over January
with its scribbled reminders, back into the forest,
leaving tracks on the snow
to be followed
by an otter on its back
that swam through February
from appointment to concert. The bears of March
splashed while we hiked
beneath two skies in the canyon,
one black, one shining
with the light after storm. April, May, June:
two wet snouts, a surprise visitor, a gleaming frog,
a play and a plover
caught on quiet sand. With half a year
to go, a lion melted
on a bough, not going anywhere
as the days were marked with good intentions
but we stayed home. The Monarch's wings
were folded through the height
of summer when we crossed the desert
before cranes
shone above their September reflections.
Autumn stared through an owl's wide eyes
at cancellations and the blank squares
marking daily life
until mist rose from a river
through a long coyote call
and the workers came
to insulate the roof.
A lynx observed the red ink days
checked off, departures and arrivals,
a long distance call, the last full moon,
with frost brushed into its fur,
balanced on its paws,
still as the hour hand
on next year's clock.
Copyright by David Chorlton
Watching News with the Sound Turned off
The screen catches fire.
Flames from another hemisphere
burn with muted tongues
but the room stays cool.
A last silent train
shuttles through the zone
between countries contemplating war
while peace talks continue
without words.
Faces appear in clusters
with all eyes turned one way,
all lips pursed around a word
spoken a thousand times
at once, and the people
move on, too many
to ever change direction.
Copyright by David Chorlton