With this selection of five poems by David Ruekberg, we continue our new series of original fiction or poetry by writers who either published their first book at 40 or after, or who have yet to publish a book. Writers interested in submitting work should see our guidelines.
A Good Day
—started out like almost
every Monday, groggy
coffee egg whites toast
but at work the deadlines
had relaxed and I finally got
some work done
shared stories with people
I mostly pass in the hall
and when I got home
Leah had begun to clean
algae off the tool shed and
by the time the chicken
was out of the oven I had
knocked half the moss from
the roof mowed the lawn and
after dinner transplanted
kale mulched flower boxes
threw the carcass in the trash
—Still the sun wouldn’t go down
so I wrote this song
near dawn dreamed of marigolds
***
Bloom
Put away the tools of winter now,
the wide scoops for lifting light
but deadly loads, the axes and picks
for breaking up those stubborn
and slick patches of cold
that threaten to break us. Turn
the ground. Bury what’s gone
crusty and let it sleep in darkness,
renewed by what life sifts
up from below, sun
warming its back. Cut back the old,
dead life, and nurse the new
with tender pats and moisture.
A little love every day.
No flood. No landslide.
Remember to rest, to wait.
The Rose of Sharon’s not dead,
nor the woody lavender. After
months of lifeless brown
you smell the trees exhale.
First the shy bud,
then the showy flower.
Soon the yard’s intoxicated
with viburnum spice, cheered
by the redbud’s magenta
that matches the garden shoes
you wear while you sweep
dead spruce needles,
mixing them into soil,
preparing the way.
***
Child with My Face
The bed is warm and dim,
a cotton cocoon, sleep
sloughs off like a surf
receding, but notice
the shoulders, hiked and solid
as if ready for a blow
from behind. It takes
a few breaths to bring them
to butter, for blood to flow
more freely.
Over coffee and toast we talk
but my mind wanders, already
revising yesterday’s list, trying
to pack two more things
into a day that can barely
breathe as it is. You stop
telling your story. My fear
invents your displeasure,
your anger, forms a skin,
a skein, readies defenses.
By evening, exhausted, the dross
of day’s failures deep enough
to drown me, I sit for a moment
and thoughts stop, or step aside.
In the eddy, I sense a child
with my name, with my face,
waiting patiently on the far side
of fear’s river that all day I’ve fought,
its push furious, forgetting if I let go
of the paddle, the plans, how easy
it is to breathe, to see the pebbles
beneath the frenzy, sky overhead,
this lost child, to see you.
***
Much Needed Rain
What is this? A sudden
thunderstorm
late in the day
after a death
and weeks of no rain.
Now—
so much at once.
The sun
breaking through—
Hallelujah!
End of gloom, but
a bump in humidity,
a big one so early in June.
In the next room, Leah
chatting and laughing
with her brother’s sister
in Tulsa, pleasantries,
and then the real thing,
only one side of the talk
about her parents’
decline. Her mother’s
dementia. Or is it only
the usual depression?
Dad’s denial.
Trees outside our picture
window turn suddenly still,
young leaves cupped,
like hands,
palms up,
as if to say, “Thank you
for this blessing.
Could we ask for more?”
Then day’s light
fading, or rather,
the globe’s turning,
to say things plain.
Clouds thicken, lift.
Trick of light.
Dawn, seeming.
***
Pink Trumpets
Today the numbers were crunching me—
Computing achievement for kids at school
Cash in the accounts splashing around like
a kid in a tub making war on the floor
Actuarial tables taking their toll
while outside the living room window
bags of gold blazed yellow in the windowbox
and azaleas blared through pink trumpets
I’ve got pink trumpets!
I’ve got pink trumpets!
for all the gray neighborhood to see
***
David Ruekberg lives and writes near Rochester, New York. After retiring from teaching in 2019, he enjoys spending more time in nature and the kitchen, reading and writing, and fighting climate pollution. He holds an MFA from Warren Wilson and has enjoyed a residency at Jentel Arts. Poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Borderlands, Cimarron Review, DMQ, Mudfish, and elsewhere. His second collection of poetry, Hour of the Green Light (FutureCycle Press) was published in January, 2021. He is currently at work on a third collection about climate change and marriage. Read more at https://poetry.ruekberg.com.
Bloom 
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