On this
election day
I break the golden rule
that poetry and politics
don’t mix.
Morning Poems
Loring Park Begins
A misty morning embraces
October’s auburn to tawny prairie
grass that rims my city
pond beneath smoke
white skies. How can I ignore
the beauty
in change
even if death
is involved?
New Normal
The morning after
it all, I wonder
when, where, how
it will emerge.
When will
the aftershocks
of his death cease?
Where did
the bagpiper go,
where should
those empty shells
from the gun salute go?
How will
I know
this is
the new normal?
Broken Drought
As quickly as
the rain stops, my heart
aches anew
for the sound
of your voice—
the reassurance
that I truly am
as I truly should
be this moment.
Go Back to Rockville
As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
Ten Days In
An invisible hand
rips pages
in the dark. There are
hungry ghost
editors looking to be
fed. Perforated thought
slips through
translucent clutches—
a porous wisdom
visible from the river’s west bank.
27 August 2012
For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
Wish Serendipity
She accidentally drops
a penny
into a plastic cup
filled with water.
Aiming for the tip
jar, how did she miss?
Whose water—
now magical
or polluted? No one
notices. She decides
on magic,
and it would be
peace for you, Dad.
Poem
I am a picture
book that dissects
and defies
time. Am also a letter
from one soul
to another written
on an old wooden fence.
Hey, Luthier!
Can you hear me
over the sound of a fret
hammer? I know
you’re not looking—I can
say anything.
No one’s going to get embarrassed.
Not even my future
self in her quiet
attention to every detail
you create.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 