A Minnesota Poem

Homecoming -

October moon - fat and low -
stealing through the trees
is
watching,
always with us
as we walk.

My hand in your jacket pocket
warms yours as
leaves float with our feelings
and crackle underfoot.

All too soon, we are home.
Inside the garage
away from the moon's prying eyes
we stand
on cold cement
waiting
watching
wondering

Can I kiss you?

Can I kiss you Caren,
with sapphire eyes
and soft cotton skin,
who brought the Clash
to our small town
then left
when we laughed.
Moved away from small town boys
and homecoming dances,
evenings at the Dairy Queen
and nights under stars
with rough handed boys
who loved football and Budweiser
and then you.
Stole into the shadows of city
with an unlisted phone number.

Was it to stop
boys like me from calling?
Did she want to forget?
Had she forgotten what she once said:
"Can I kiss you, Caren?"
"Yes."

David Hessert

For Robert Hayden (and my mother)

Paper Route

Sundays, too, my mother,
Weary-eyed woke
Before the sun’s thin rise
Over the icy plain
To start the furnace
And warm the oven,
Baking stones
In that silent house

She would wrap them gently
In faded tea towels -
As I struggled into separate socks -
And nestle them under the flap
Of my newsboy’s canvas bag

Under the crisp moon,
Cutting through the canyoned sidewalks
Moving house to house
Through rising hills of white,
I would plunge my frigid hands
Into their nested warmth,
Unwrapping these messages of love.

A sonnet for the snow

Snowstorm

It’s making settled homes seem farmhouse pure,
and frosting neighbors’ panes a distant blue,
So all enclosed takes on an oily hue.
We sit alone. Without, the frigid world
swirls punishing astringent falsities;
its softened lines and blustry, dancing curves,
and Christmas lights in misty-colored blurs
hide all forgotten ‘neath it’s creeping freeze.

Ah love, let us live forever in tonight,
While mistletoe kisses and eggnog smiles
Vaseline all in filter-focus white –

Cuddled in illusion, we’re tucked up tight.
We lie within our world of post card guiles,
blanketed ‘gainst the tempest-teeming night.


Dave Hessert