Lacosha! you kept passing by.
We never picked bright yellow
flowers in the fields on Spring mornings,
and we never chased rabbits
through people’s backyards on
Autumn afternoons.
I’m still looking for words,
my voice muffled by fear,
to invite you to my birthday party.
Written 15 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “My Native Valley” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)
The winds are picking up
blowing trash into my yard
and announcing a storm that will
fall apart before it arrives.
The worn out flags and crosses
still look as majestic as they did,
but I’m opening by insides
and filling my pages with secrets.
I’m waiting for critiques
by entrenched folks who think
too much about the sex lives
of other people, of my sex life.
I want to reveal myself again,
try to make people see my words
and my techniques and stop worrying
about who I’ve kissed or
who I haven’t, but wanted to.
I want to edit volumes of poetry
about God and America and guns,
poems filled with the lies we tell ourselves
and enjoy them because the author
knew how to write the words beautifully.
I don’t want to read the judgement.
It starts to rain and I’m surprised;
I thought the rain would miss us.
Written 21 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Quentin Clingerman Has Died” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
I’m still waiting outside for rain,
hoping for sudden downpours from cloudless skies.
I’m wondering if she’ll join me when the first drops
start to fall and the birds fall silent.
She’s been delayed, I’ve told myself again,
or the rain hasn’t been enough.
It has never been enough
I’ve summoned more and more rain,
for over a year I’ve coaxed it from the air,
the ground sometimes swelling, saturated and marshy.
Brush Creek has filled to overflowing,
washing out parts of the road and clearing out
the debris of our distractions.
It has not been enough.
The Cimarron & Arkansas Rivers have been flooded,
swallowing homes and memories,
lives lost and inconvenienced.
Still she has not arrived.
I continue my incantations, calling for more clouds,
more rain — great hurricanes that try to find me,
creeping along the coasts, tied to the oceans.
Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, The Bahamas, Puerto Rico,
they may all need to be sacrificed in my efforts,
and it will be worth the loss because I will
no longer feel like I am alone.
I am listening for those first signs, the drips on the tin roof
and I am ready to throw open the windows,
clench my fists, and try to push my dreams into reality.
I know she will join me if I keep trying,
and we will sit together on the covered porch,
resuming what should still be.
Written 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “The Rain” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
Bea
The swan lands, awkwardly gliding
into water among strangers, among friends.
On the far horizon, the ponds edges
kiss coy stars, lurking in the dusk.
The swan gracefully turns her long neck;
her eyelids close softly — contentedly.
A world escapes behind veils of thin skin;
the murmur of voices fades to silence.
Gently, the elegant bird tucks her beak
under her wing and lets peace take her.
4.26.2009
Written 26 April 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska.
Brian Fuchs, “Bea” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
