SELECTED POETRY

by
Christopher Cunningham

THEY ALL NEED SOMETHING

it is cold here.
the dead of another winter.
ugly
beasts
prowl the streets
searching for blood with
fangs glinting in
the sickly light from a
shrouded moon.
the weak scurry
for uncertain cover.

everything is hungry,
hunter and hunted
alike.

the darkness is alive
with slitted eyes
reflecting
fear and desperation.

grim times
for poetry.

what one really needs
is a
steady hand

and a good
sharp
blade.

© Christopher Cunningham

---

JUNKYARD

broken glass
like sugary knives
in the dusty
red
glare of sunset.

rats hide
in tight
metal canyons.

all of us
wait here,
rusting slowly,
silently

while the rain falls

and another day ends.

maybe tomorrow
our patience will
be rewarded

with the
right
scavenger
at last.

but for now:

darkness
And
time.

© Christopher Cunningham

---

BLUE MOUSE

so
like
the footprint
of a ghost,
a
tiny
hiccup
of blue smoke
curling
around itself

in the pinestraw
and acorns.

pearls of dew
reflect the grey dawn.

the air is very still.

over damp earth
a
hawk’s shadow
crawls.

the precision
of time.

this space
between
here and there.

small deaths
and
larger
tragedies.

a circle
tightening.

© Christopher Cunningham

---

STRUGGLING UP

such
bleak nights as this
cover us
in a lonesome shroud.

the weight of the air
threatens to
drown us,
to smother us
in darkness.

we are tired from
fighting,
from struggling up
to our feet
time and time again
only to
have the night
come flowing over the horizon
once more
and wash away our
meagre gains.

our steps become shallow,
our faces almost invisible.

such bleak nights as this.

all
I want
is
to breathe.

© Christopher Cunningham

---

RIDING HORSES THRU SHALLOW WATER

I’ve never
ridden a horse
and probably
won’t.

I’ve not seen
the Grand Canyon nor
ridden its rapids
nor a burro to its ancient floor.

I’ve never driven an eighteen-wheeler
across hot blacktop
though it is a dream
I don’t tell anyone.

and I once had a dream
where I was riding a
horse thru shallow water
in some desert I’d never seen.

I can remember the scent of
flowers
and the feeling of motion.

I rarely dream
these days.

now
I understand
more clearly
the mechanics
of
this ride.

© Christopher Cunningham

---

THE RIDE

his sign says
homeless Vietnam Vet.

you’ve seen it.
but
have you seen this:

he makes
motorcycles,
choppers,
out of discarded soda cans.

cuts the fenders and the tank
with old rusty tin snips
and welds the metal together
with strong industrial glue.

handlebars, wheels that roll,
kickstand supporting the
whole damn thing.

I give him ten bucks
and he says
take one.

I do, say,
thank you brother.

his scabbed and torn
hands
holding that bill.

my pale fingers around

a work of art.

a chance.

© Christopher Cunningham

---

THE BROWN GRASSES OF ANOTHER LONG WINTER

I step outside
into the backyard
and the brown grasses
of another long winter
break and snap
beneath the weight.

in places
they reach thru the
fallen and rotting
piles of leaves,
straining for the
green of spring.

but those
days
are
a long
time
coming.

I spot a crow.
a dove.

nothing
at
all.

© Christopher Cunningham