5 Phases of the October Moon

1. new moon

traffic looks stalled under the Fremont Bridge arch

but it’s far off through rain & the train window

black river’s a one-way mirror for the sky

where the moon must float, absorbing gray moisture

2. waxing crescent

the sky’s undecided--half hour after

blue, half hour before black--but the train might

arrive on schedule under gold station lights:

the crescent’s blurred above angled power lines

3. half moon

cattails & vetch thrive at the parking lot’s edge

where this late afternoon blends shadow & sun—

the yellow clapboard walls align slanted light,

but not slanted light off the divided moon

4. waxing gibbous

streetlight photons cut across the avenue,

glimmer between the birch leaves, an electric

nest; here come the headlights, flying two by two:

moon’s belly swells ripe in an unpeopled sky

5. full moon

the taijitu sign glows black & white against

a stucco building; people are driving home,

lights approaching from all dimensions; how can

this moon be both a mirror & an orphan

Jack Hayes

© 2017

This completes the yearlong cycle of moon quatrains, & also officially signals the completion of the Sunflower Sky manuscript & 101 Portland Moons. Stay tuned for publication information.

Time & the River

(Eastbank Esplanade: 9/2/17)

green river like evening air stretching its

hands between the maples beside a distant

river—mother would recognize it in oils,

a canvas I could picture but didn’t paint—

but it’s afternoon & water has little

to do with this solid state blue sky; liquid

fragments stitched with boat wakes & memories &

glimpses in the direction this current flows

◦

the pigeons & starlings feeding on bread crumbs

strewn by park benches are skittish in the heat—

the scrub jay perched on the galvanized railing

turns & turns again, darts to the madrona’s

foliage—a pair of Canada geese on

a sinking log below the bramble cascade

stretch wings, preen in unison; under Burnside

bridge other geese move on indigo shadows

◦

I’m not young; the motorboat churns downriver,

bow lifted; a paddleboat moseys past those

floating geese, but the geese don’t stir; you’re standing

in sunlight, holding the dog on her leash in

a photograph in my mind that’s also you

standing by the railing above green green flow:

a freight train processes west on the Steel Bridge,

its passing infinite for those few minutes

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Two Octets from Late August

Amazing Grace Octet

(8/23/17)

this morning's overcast has wound up shredded;

from the next block a hammer’s thud, a nail gun’s

staccato echo an invisible world—

the engine of a parked car turns over

but it doesn't seem to catch the attention

of that lonesome crow perched on the wire

as usual—twin sunflowers try to find

their place amidst unmade clouds—I once was lost

◦           ◦            ◦

The Time Octet

(8/24/17)

the future exists already but like so

many other places I haven't been there—

autumn comes to call on the avenue this

noon; one red petunia petal falls from

the balcony, pretending to be a leaf;

outside the tea shop a woman pulls on her

sweater; the bus comes, either late or early:

my shadow moves ahead of me, to the side

Jack Hayes

© 2017

August Moon

(8 quatrains)

1. new moon

chrome hubcap complete with bolts lies on blacktop

as if about to set below the curb’s rise—

yucca stalks against white sky, blossoms faded:

moon’s blank disc invisible past the pink clouds

2. waxing crescent

twilight’s losing its cobalt blue momentum;

it comes down to three red lights suspended in

a horizon silver as that one stopped car:

pinprick planet next to this swelling crescent

3. half moon

bare chestnut limbs a character inked on this

violet sky—what does their radical mean?

white musk odor of Queen Anne’s lace on the lawn:

half moon bowing its head in recollection

4. waxing gibbous

those nameless trees on the side street look that much

darker than the sky; bus stop shelter absorbs

the red light’s spill, but is otherwise empty—

moon out of round against a purple curtain

5. full moon

three moths flash off & on, eccentric spirals

through the security light’s high amber heat—

out of sight between dark houses, cars murmur:

moon catches metallic sun in empty night

6. waning gibbous

the Siamese cat materializes

from the patio shikimi, blending with

patched concrete, parched grass, illuminated leaves:

moon rises past the roof without commotion

7. last quarter

this sun highlights the galvanized downspout’s joints;

the hummingbird feeder, dangling from a beam,

is filled with sugar water, & plums shine ripe,

but the half moon’s upturned bowl sinks into clouds

8. waning crescent

the parking strip sunflower’s grown too heavy

to look up at the black & white prop plane as

it circles that crow standing in Queen Anne’s lace;

this moon has grown so faint you’d need to look twice

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Sunflower Sky Octet

Sunflower Sky Octet

(8/17/17)

                        for Sandy

it’s August & the garden sunflower grows

heavy above the rosemary & the lawn’s

chaotic Queen Anne’s lace; it might even droop

away from unclouded sky—nothing to see

there except the sun & you can’t look at that

long—but see what it inscribes casting shadows:

this that weary glad hungry loving thee me—

look at the zenith! the pale yellow petals!

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Checking in on the poetry front with the title poem from the most recent collection, which will when finished in early October complete the trilogy started last autumn with Crow on the Wire. The second book, The High Lonesome Sound, should be available within the next couple of weeks. Thanks as always for your interest in my poetry.

Photo © 2017 by  Sandy Pullella. All rights reserved on poem & photograph.

Walking Maranasati Double Octet

(7/13/17)

I’d like to forgive my lungs’ malfunction, ask

my lungs’ forgiveness too; cigarette smoke sky

billowing congestion all the way up to

the afterlife, its sequestered, collapsed stars:

coffee shop windows lined with brown paper, crow

gliding above the roof is the logical

outcome, a black breath emerging to after-

noon; one maple branch hangs broken, leaves expired—

◦

I-5 traffic circulates under my feet—

the overpass quakes through its spine & rib cage—

three salsify stalks quake too on sunburnt grass;

is it traffic is it the north wind the crow

intersects gliding east into the past, in-

to overcast static in mutable flow,

this body walking west where the two trains pass,

my breath in sequence with the walk sign’s countdown

Jack Hayes

© 2017

July Moon

(8 quatrains)

1. new moon

swallowtail glides black through a cherry tree’s shade;

the parking strip’s California poppies:

an assemblage of orange decoupage suns—

whatever moon there is: blue in this high sky

2. waxing crescent

three lime-green trikes lined up on the concrete porch,

one faded red ride-on fire truck parked below

on the patio—playground gate’s still open:

crescent drifts off to sleep in gathering clouds

3. half moon

the hummingbird hovers, wings shifting between

what’s seen & what’s imagined; it balances

at sunset, a silhouette near the black plum:

half moon’s equilibrium in fading blue

4. waxing gibbous

the scrub jay’s plumage forms a map of the sky

except for the sunset’s yellow cirrus glow;

traffic seems invisible as the bird flies:

the moon’s silver eyeball is gazing higher

5. full moon

the clematis has unfurled its purple cross

in the shadow of the board fence, below the

string of prayer flags—one white flag soaks up white light:

moon rising through lattice into black heaven

6. waning gibbous

floor lamp casts a white oval against the wall,

white pedestal fan churns the living room air;

slats on the white blinds have been slanted open:

moon bracketed by clouds rises between them

7. last quarter

the sidewalk’s hump over the tree’s knotted root

is strewn with ripe cherries, some crushed, some intact;

a single fruit falls, rolls down the sloped pavement:

half moon tips toward the branches’ tangled curve

8. waning crescent

white daylily blossoms speckled orange nod

sleepy above the sidewalk in this noon breeze--

marigolds reflect an occasional sun’s

bloom between clouds that hide the moon’s last petal

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Two Alsea River Octets

(7/6/17)

1. morning

the Stellar’s Jay whistling in the Douglas-fir

is echoed by the silence of mergansers

as they drift downstream through poplar reflections,

their own reflections mingled with green tangles;

midstream the image of firs lie across

the water except for the one cleft of sky—

which reminds me the espresso pot’s steaming

waiting to be poured into forest green cups

2. noon

invisible bird sings in 7/8 time

through ash leaves past the elderberry bushes;

poplar leaves float west on the green river through

poplar reflections; three blackberry blossoms

directly in front of me & you reading

the heartbreaking story of the US west;

butterflies spin lazily through shaft of sun,

turn into ash leaves just before they touch ground

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Three Independence Day Octets

Independence Day Octet #1

(7/4/17)

late morning when the blinds open, a bird sings

somewhere beyond white parked cars—we haven’t been

introduced—there’s sunlight of course, a ghostly

butterfly to the east, but not the Far East;

we were looking at new colors for Lenten

roses—they were bocce balls on a west coast

lawn somewhere between Rockaway’s broken sand

dollar & Golden Gate Park’s calla lilies

◦           ◦            ◦

Independence Day Octet #2

(7/4/17)

in the Renaissance they knew the soul is black,

the opposite of that souvenir baseball,

the one come to rest against my father’s watch;

afternoon’s firecrackers snap like banjo

strings bursting through a Marshall amp, the one lugged

up Burnside by the guy in black; a sky blue

heart drawn in sidewalk chalk, centered on the crack,

the one where I’m trying to find my mother

◦           ◦            ◦

Independence Day Octet #3

(7/4/17)

a harmonica chord—let’s say C major—

morphs into the sound of a baby crying;

the sun, like the rest of us, is headed west,

the sky with its intentions both good & blue,

is otherwise empty unlike that front porch

piled with dried sunflowers; they make no sound

unlike that hammer against shingles or that

harmonica reverting to single notes

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Two Octets from Early July

Evening Walk Octet

(7/2/17)

one star breaks loose from the Big Dipper, becomes

an airplane, makes straight for the silver half moon,

tail light blinking red; there’s not a single cloud—

the avenue though is thick with cherry leaves

& streetlights fragment in the foliage &

the mirror of a parked black motorcycle—

yucca stems have collapsed under their own white

weight; you stop to touch the redbud’s dark heart leaves

◦           ◦            ◦

Monday Morning Moody Octet

(7/3/17)

having written the identical poem

a thousand times over I’ve come no closer

to wisdom; the harsh hum of a lawn mower

comes right through the blinds & spins by my shoulder,

& my heart’s as black as this Year of the Horse

hoodie dated 2002 I’m wearing

despite the fact it’s July, the zodiac’s

shifted, the sky’s cloudless far as I can see

Jack Hayes

© 2017

Sauvie Island Eternal Return Octets

(6/24/17)

                        for Sandy

1. Convenience Store

parallel to candy bar racks, cardboard bins

filled with lead sinkers, pyramids & oblongs,

the addition of gravity to current,

carrying lures down to sturgeon depth; bobbers

meantime, red & white confections, put you in

mind of floating; we talk about watching the twitch

on still water as the fish nibbled sending

gray ripples out in circles a long time past

2. Pastoral

the llama watching a flock of sheep as it

kneels in the cottonwood’s shade hasn’t been sheared;

heat hasn’t started to shimmer off blacktop,

but an osprey rides a low thermal over

that hayed pasture; a kestrel swoops up, perches

on a power line, goes still against spotless

blue sky—it stretches deep in this heat; flowers

have replaced the engine of the red farm truck

3. Strawberry Picking

snow fields on the three mountains rise north & east;

scarlet hearts on their runners in rows lining

that knoll; juice on fingers, dust in sneaker mesh,

orange sun hat shading your face as you crouch—

light translated to that sweet taste on the tongue,

juice oozing from bags, the bottom layer pressed—

downhill, hydrangeas reflect sky, daisies

reflect sun as if this was a child’s painting

4. Multnomah Channel

bald eagle soars between sun & moored houseboats;

father, mother, children each casts a line from

rocks just down the channel from where we duck in

the cold wake the sailboat’s inboard engine

transmits to the shore; water that green black blue

the Chinese call nature’s color, at least in

translation; rocks sharp underfoot, cottonwood

pollen floating: lightness, risk, as if children

Jack Hayes

© 2017