SOUNDS OF TOMORROW

Early spring twigs crackle and curl
in the fire pit that’s more rust than metal,
smoldering up smoke signals 

to a high-rising suburban wind.
Someone’s lawnmower churns 
the uneven youthful sprouts of tomorrow,

while somewhere not so far off
children scream from a trampoline.
The birds are telling their stories today,

conjuring early buds from maples and oaks,
trying to charm worms from the ground
as if they’re snakes in baskets.

Yesterday, all was frozen, ice and snow
telling tales of Marches past,
while today shouts shorts and sun,

and we all take advantage,
doing our best to ready ourselves 
for a world we hope to will into existence.

OUT OF THE SILENCE

It’s in these hours
when the rest of the house,
the rest of the neighborhood
is still making up for
all those overbalanced yesterdays,
nothing but dirty streetlights,
and the slightest suggestion of a sun
that will show her face
only when she’s good and ready.

These are the times when
your own devices are laid aside,
making room for something more,
something that flows like
water over the stones in the creek bed
out on the edge of everything.

These are the moments that
belong only to you,
and the slight wind in the bare branches
you can just make out through a darkness,
that for all its impenetrability,
casts more light than mere eyes
could ever hope to perceive.

It’s in these brief, endless seconds
when all those yesterdays and tomorrows,
all the versions of yourself inside and out
converge and create a whole
that will most likely be
your only true possession.

VOICE IN THE SKY

I’m staring out the window
on this stormy afternoon,
contemplating another cup of coffee
as the skies bring in more thunder,

more overcast water for our world.
Two days ago, birds and squirrels
ran riot in the yard, noisily scavenging
all they could take, an unmistakable

animal joy permeating every downed leaf,
every blade of still-dormant grass.
The clouds we pretend to understand
learned this Clark Kent routine

long before we ever figured out
the light switch or binary code
or even right from wrong.
This suburban street is quiet

at a time when it would normally be
teeming with wheeled and foot traffic,
much as the green spaces and trees
are lacking the birds and rodents.

Maybe in the end, if we listen to the wind,
if we hear the sky, and all it has to tell,
we can all finish our sentences
scrawled at the bottom of the same page.

RIGHT NOW

A single bird 
trumpets the changing of the guard
from the other side of the 
smudged February glass.
The gray sky tells much the same tale

as the tepid cup of possibility,
everyone unsure of the method,
but convinced of the goal.
The few remaining leaves are still
on this damp Sunday morning,

and the quietude of this moment
is almost bucolic in its stationary existence.
We’ve all been told these stories,
and sometimes we listen,
and sometimes we don’t,

but the message remains,
a firmly gentle reminder 
that the roots run as deep as they ever have,
and the daylight is only
on the other side of those temporary clouds.

The bird might not know 
that all of this will burn off,
at least not on the intellectual scale,
but he feels it,
and you do, too.

Poet’s Statement:

This sequence of poems comes from a project I’ve been working on with Dr. Tyler Robert Sheldon. This is our second project, the first being the book Against the Dark which came out – believe it or not – seven years ago. A large portion of my stuff tends to be narrative/character driven. These are not that. One of the many great things about working with Tyler is that in responding to his poems, I’m compelled to stretch myself into a different approach to writing poems yet still keep them in a voice that’s recognizable as my own. These poems are a bit more introspective, contemplative, and even somewhat metaphysical; a departure from much of my usual stuff but hopefully putting my own spin on many of the themes Tyler often tackles.

On “Sounds of Tomorrow”:

This poem came directly from me spending an early March afternoon by myself in the backyard clearing brush and disposing of it in the firepit. As the afternoon progressed, I found myself paying increasing attention to the sights and sounds around me. There’s a very palpable sense of rebirth and hope that stems from those moments of transition from winter to spring. In this poem, I tried to capture that specific sensation as I experienced it on that particular afternoon.

On “Out of the Silence”:

I’m a morning person, more so the older I get. In our increasingly complicated, noisy lives, I find early morning, especially before the sun presents itself, as the most peaceful time of day. I see those brief minutes as being the most conducive to contemplation. It’s also, for me, one of the easiest times to observe oneself as part of the whole, to see oneself as an integral part of nature.

On “Voice in the Sky”:

Despite what the title might imply, this poem has nothing to do with religion. At least not in a traditional, direct sense. In some ways, it’s a presentation of the flipside of the last poem. This one is largely about observing nature, and even the nature of nature from the confines of our shared modern existence. By the end of the poem, I hope to convey that many, if not all, of these walls, both physical and otherwise, are largely illusory, and true freedom can exist within the realization and acceptance of this.

On “Right Now”:

Another nature one. This is another one that came from looking out of my window and focusing on the trees, the birds, the ice. Now that I’m firmly in middle-age, now that I’ve got a significant measure of years and miles behind me, it becomes increasingly apparent that the world (not to be confused with the world as we have made it) has been patiently attempting to teach us the same basic, yet essential lessons for longer than the concept of time. Much of life can be supremely humbling. In this poem, I hope to remind myself, if no one else, that these humbling moments can often lead to the greatest exaltation. But only if you let them.

James Benger is the author of several books of poetry and prose. He serves on the Board of Directors of the Writers Place and the Riverfront Readings Committee, and is the founder of the 365 Poems in 365 Days online workshop. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and children.