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
while
straight-laced
platonic swingers
switch seats and shuffle.
Chris Buechner
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
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.
down the steps
to a place unknown
though the space above
was quite familiar.
crossing some horizontal plane
downward
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
