Cranes

This was just republished on the blog Miriam's Well. It also appears in Southern Light: Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets, and in my chapbook, Searching for Cranes.
It was first published in The Chattanooga Chat, newsletter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society, Chattanooga Chapter.

Cranes

Their voices
call to my ears,
pull my eyes skyward,
Sandhills from Michigan.

Cranes wing southward,
call my thoughts to fly with them
to Okefenokee
or the Gulf Coast of Florida.

They bring their news of winter,
their voices compared to barking
geese, to the bugling
of wild elks.

These are no geese,
their words no honk,
no barnyard bark for them.
It is a rattling coo,
doves amplified 1000 times.

Arrows shot from a bow,
they neither swoop nor slow,
they rocket southward,
abandon me here
rooted to the ground.

Cranes – According to An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Traditional Symbols, 1978, Thames and Hudson, Ltd, London, cranes are symbols of longevity, vigilance, prosperity, protective motherhood, and happiness. Various cultures have regarded them as intermediaries between heaven and earth, heralds of spring and light, and sacred birds inhabiting the isles of the blessed.

More Storm Poems

Texting

Tornado
In it
Me 2
U OK



My Neighborhood

Flowers among rocks
Campfires and Whiskey
Candles in the Wind

Dedication

Officials give impressive speeches.
Little boy rides by on tricycle.
Brmm Brmm Brmm
Blah Blah Blah
Bye Bye.

another storm poem

A Mother

Dropped one of
at elementary, another
at high school.

Saw the funnel,
sheltered in
a convenience store.

Wondered
which daughter she
should go to first.

Storm Poem

I wrote this while watching the dance/ceremony for healing on the Walnut Street Bridge yesterday. May we all feel the healing.

The Healing

The dance is not linear.
Forward and back
the dancers turn.
Elaborate moves
heal the hurt
inflicted
by nonlinear winds,
whirling in
their greatest power

Tai Chi master
plays wooden flute.
Guitar strings vibrate.
Energy of peace
stronger than solid earth
which cracks beneath
a nuke plant.
Tsunami wipes out
coastal villages.

Homeless man stands
before the dancers
Backs across bridge.
Seems to preside.

evangelism

Evangelist on the bridge asks,
if you died tomorrow
would you go to heaven?

An old west gunslinger
he carves a notch on his belt
for each soul saved.

Monteagle Mountain

Monteagle Mountain

White clouds offset
blue sky
directionless, ever swirling.
The space between branches

Christmas Papers

This piece is copyright 2008 by Ray Zimmerman and will appear in the soon to be released anthology,
Southern Light.

Christmas Papers

I was older when I noticed
the same color and pattern
on the Christmas paper.
Each year a pattern
graced a smaller package.

Christmas morning emanated
excitement and opening
packages with scissors,
carefully cutting tape,
so as not to rip the paper.

I was older when I noticed
my mother’s hands,
ironing on Christmas night.
She ironed the same towel
again and again.

Under the towel
Christmas papers
lost their creases,
regained smooth surfaces.

Her hands rolled the paper
we could not replace. Choosing
between gifts and new paper,
she chose gifts.