Saturday Night Bridge Party, 1977

Men with cardigans

follow winged women

down to the den.


Tables dressed in white,

folded out like beds.

Sofas and chairs dealt to one side.

High balls from the high shelves

for the sweet      breath      bloody mary.

peanuts with loose red skins,

pillowy mints.


Aces high murmurs

under the television,

no remote.

Love Boat and Fantasy Island



platonic swingers

switch seats and shuffle.


Chris Buechner

Spring Parting

A crow flies over the ball field

its wings barely lit by the sun

  almost to the top of the yellow pines.


(my pastor is leaving)


The sun moves up

       inside the chapel

simplicity welcomes

      the reflections

                                       of bluebirds

                    fading into the walls


(my pastor is leaving)


The pews are stained with my tears

     echoes of my quiet cries to God,

give me strength

mix mud with my eyes

so i may see


A hawk flies over Peachtree Creek

where the shallow ford was crossed


(my pastor is leaving)


Childrens feet and prayer hands

clap and scramble

ring bells and sing

greet and grow

loud and boisterous

like the wild geese

announcing their place

heading away from here


(my pastor is leaving)


Faith is not sedentary

Faith must instigate and take flight

like this church

and the seasons

an the crow

and the bluebirds

and the hawk

and the wild geese

and the holy spirit


Our pastor is on the move.

We are all in flight.


Chris Buechner  2018

october musings

chilly, clear autumn mornings
tap me on the shoulder
press into my pillow
lead me to that timeless place
where age and years
are replaced by grace.

the subtle heartbreak
of the Indian summer
that tricked
the cherry tree into bloom
is all I am aware of.


Tragic Point of View

To watch your wife die on stage

can be a harrowing experience

where the suspension of disbelief

can be suspended in time.

“I’m dying”

She screamed

as I sat, wedged in between strangers,

no one to comfort my unreal sorrowful


of what I would do if this were true.

She looks so real, so clear, so convincing

that I begin to feel the emptiness

of life without her,

looking at death

through the pit of my stomach,

through the eyes of our boys

through a lens with the cap on.

She dies and the lights go down.


Intermission (I go outside and breathe)


The lights come up,

her bed is empty.

I know she is sitting backstage somewhere

siting quietly

maybe eating

or drinking tea.

She can hear the dialogue just as I can,

but she has moved on

to her next lines, her next entrance.

I can only think of her exit in Act I

and how I don’t want to live without her,

how bright and beautiful she is.

How relieved I am when she bows to the audience.

AM radio

Listening to baseball
In the car
Cigar, searching for AM stations
South Carolina
Mile long
RollingHighway hills

In the kitchen
Windows open
Cold beer, hot chicken.

In bed, west coast trip
Half asleep
Awake with Headphones
Under my shoulder

Mowing the lawn
The proverbial lawn
Where 6-4-3
Cuts to the heart of the matter.


i’m inside with the record player
“Nows the Time”
a Steve Allen hand-me-down

one child’s asleep,
i’m working as a short order cook
for the other.
i’m devouring a novel
while upstairs he chats.

i can relate to his desire.
talking to girls on the phone
late at night
was my specialty.
“get off the phone”
i yell anyway.

when the lights are out
i go to the garage,
turn on public radio
and now some eleventh hour
happenstance Shostakovich concerto
is the soundtrack
of my cigarette.


elegy for a bed

tussled sheets
create their own wake
living underneath
i give more than I take

remember when
alone and still
running up that hill

all at once
your smile is where?
i want my fingers
running through your hair

tussled sheets
create their own wake
living underneath
hoping not to break

tussled sheets
create your own fate

remember when
sitting so alone
how i wish i knew
the way back home


a slope

down the steps
to a place unknown
though the space above
was quite familiar.
crossing some horizontal plane
falling, tumbling
toward some inner core
staring up through the water
at the shore.
internal combustion
no regrets on the steps
I mean every word I say

mementos of a summer heart

the lark subsides
and flies
out below
the grey ceiling
where she is kneeling
praying for grace
leaving in haste
though there is nowhere to go
she guards her heart
through overgrown paths

the summer rain
won’t stop
and somewhere the summer sun
is waiting
patiently i suppose

the folds of trees
pronounce their good deeds
to our silent ears
giving promise to autumn
and the pain of years

the sun will part the clouds somehow
but not today