Muses in Amber / In This Place of Bleak Shadow by G. Louis Heath

Muses in Amber

He loved the immortal images captured 

In amber of long ago. Bees and flies of a 

Millennium past peered stoically into his

Eyes and flew lyrics across the long divide

Of silence. Wasps and hornets likewise stung

His mind into poetic flight, muses in resinous

Time capsules resounding in the ear. They

Galvanized his spirit, cleared his mind of the

Mists of time, those bedeviling scrims against

Enlightenment. He held up the amber to let the

Sun shine on the fossilized muses in their tiny

Museums. Anon, they flew to his pen. What they

Had to say can be read in the lines of his poems

Where those timeless insects crawled for meters. 

In This Place Of Bleak Shadow

We hiked deep into tunnels of the forest,

Down stopes and drifts of shadows hiding 

From the sun. Splintered bottles glittered 

In the duff of piney woods. A soft breeze 

Whispered brittle needles over the jagged, 

Winkling remains of a natural fact, secret,

Adolescent. So we surmised. A melee of

Flies and ants swarmed on curious, carious 

Attractions, splotches of beguiling sweet, 

Signaling silent alarm. A crow flew from the 

Forest floor, dangling a shred of pallid human 

Finger. Dark messenger cawed a grim dirge,

Chilling our occiputs into primal reflex in this

Fir cave of bleak shadow, so hostile to the sun.

G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. He has published poems in a wide array of journals. His books include Leaves Of Maple and Long Dark River Casino. 

No Soul Is A Shoe by G. Louis Heath

No soul is a shoe, yet we live in shoes of

The mind. That is what I think as I watch

Her walking in the distance on a tightrope

Between shore and sky. I see a scrub jay 

Presiding over a broken branch above our 

Mother’s shoe-grave on the hill just above. 

We buried her shoe with our simple version 

Of a church rite in effigy of her, for only one  

Shoe and no body washed up on the shore, or

At least it was her size and favorite brand. The

Shoe gives us closure as best a factory shoe can. 

A bespoke shoe with monogram could make my

Sister’s mourning walk an easier tightrope to 

Tread. I see her vanishing on the horizon. She 

Says she will never stop looking. Mom must yet 

Breathe somewhere the ocean breezes whispering  

Over her shoe in its makeshift grave on the hill. 

She must still inhale sharp, salt-scented air, not 

Yet be salt unto the sea. I see the sea leaping to

Greet the westering sun of eventide. The scrub 

Jay on the splintered bough above the grave shrieks

Its harsh, piercing cry. I can see my sister no more.

G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He has published poems in a wide array of journals. His books include Leaves Of Maple and Long Dark River Casino.  

A Great Day for Shadows by G. Louis Heath

At the sunny event in our public park,

There were many shadows. Shadows

To ride on, shadows to cry on, shadows

To hide under, shadows everywhere. 

Shadows cut across our faces uplifted to

The bandshell. We stood and sat at their 

Beckon. Shadows inked our bodies, pooled 

At our feet. They hid beneath our chairs and 

Hats. Shadows fastened on us all, stole along

Our chairs, tread the grass into the trees that 

Sent shadows marching on the day. Colorful

Banners bent down to adorn each speaker in 

Dusky runners. Shadows jumped to our applause, 

Stood still when we booed. Shadows absorbed us  

All as light faded. It was a great day for shadows.

    

G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He has published poems in a wide array of journals. His books include Leaves Of Maple and Long Dark River Casino.  

Airport Terminal by G. Louis Heath

The flight board shuffles again before my

Dreary orbs, cancelling another dream for 

Launch out of this blizzard. Another trip

Gone awry, metaphor for life, one damn 

Thing after another. The terminal’s white

Noise fails to mask languages and dialects

From everywhere. They are anodyne to the

Dull throb of my long day, prelude to my 

Long night, laid out on a sarcophagus bench,

Draped in my Iowa winter coat. As night

Blackens the immense stretches of glass, I 

Feel I stand in the maw of a dying thing. I

Hope this will end soon, as this tide of 

Humanity ebbs out, this place then a desolate

Beachhead, sterile, no drift evidence of the

Vibrant, stressed humanity waylaid here by

Storm, a blink of the all-seeing eternal eye.

G. Louis Heath is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. Most recently published poem: “Baby Talk,” June 25, 2017, in IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS.

Ice Skeletons by G. Louis Heath

The sky glowers over the trees till the

furies in the clouds spit a phlegm of

sleet onto the ash, elm, and chestnut,

stately denizens on our street. Our

summer bower of glorious, efflorescing

green soon glistens, hibernal clad,

bleak skeletons of ice. Once genial trees,

now limbs starkly glossy under glass skins,

shiver in the wind, nodding off under chill

blankets. A cannonade of breaking branches

crash onto sidewalks and pavement. Ice

wages war on our pristine, verdant tunnels.

These ice attacks freeze into thought, the

oblivion of me I am borne to. Growth and

decay are woven into my winter coat I wear

toward the door. I am sure I will fall on a

mirror of ice that wants to shatter my bones.

G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University. His books include Leaves Of Maple, Long Dark River Casino, and Redbird Prof: Poems Of A Normal U, 1969-1981. He has published poems in a wide array of journals, including Poppy Road Review, Third Wednesday, and Indiana Voice Review.