The Counting Down Of Hours


I could write about the season,
The allusions of Spring,
And extinguish every trace
Of the human race.
But who would I be writing to?
Only a precious few
Have the time
To ponder
The metaphysics of the view.
The rest are possessed,
Scant time to smell flowers,
So much left to do,
The counting down of hours.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

My Angels


My life so lucky,
My angels working overtime,
Looking out for me,
Nudging happenstance in my favor,
Protecting me,
Especially from my own rash inclinations.

My angels scratching their heavenly heads,
Weighing the proper balance
Between consequence and mercy,
Leaving me with a few scars
For instruction,
As a warning,
Yet too heavily invested to let me die,
Yet.

They are patient,
So patient with me,
Still somewhat confident
I may yet make something worthwhile
Of this particular incarnation.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Returning


So long since I walked
This solitary hillside path,
Once a familiar, habitual activity.

Trees are larger now,
Gnarled limbs twisting toward one another,
Closer together.
Open spaces now filled with underbrush,
Overgrown,
Congested.
Light more shaded now,
Dimmed,
Indistinct.

Walking feels harder,
The distance longer,
The inclination to turn back stronger.

So long since I walked this path,
Now grown strange,
No longer a familiar part of me,
The part by which I measured
The passing of each day.

Something has slipped silently away.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Busy Bird


This busy bird,
Leaping in flight
From one altitude to another,
Chirping tiny messages
Full of purpose,
Or are they exuberations of delight?

I wish I knew
If this busy bird
Feels something like joy
This warm spring morning.

Flying from treetop to treetop,
Free-falling,
Playing with gravity,
Lighter than air.

Perhaps it’s all business,
All matter of fact
To one born with wings.

Perhaps it’s all joy.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

What Is Bliss?


How wide must I open my eyes?
Must I examine every aging pore?
How beautiful we look in shadows
Where imperfections yield to imagination.

What is bliss?
Not necessarily ignorance,
Just a little moonlit intoxication.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

What I Should Have Done


I’ve said it all,
Upside down, inside out and backwards,
And all I’ve done is put all these words
Between us,
All these words
In the way,
When all I really wanted to do was hold you,
But I thought I had to explain,
Everything,
When all I should have done
And all I want to do,
Is stop all this explaining
And hold you.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

What Comes Next


Sometimes
It seems like
Everything’s going wrong,
Then,
Everything gets worse
And you realize
Just how good you had it
Before everything got worse,
Then,
You get sick
And you realize
Just how lucky you were
When you were not sick,
Even though
Things were not going that well,
Then,
You die
And you think,
Oh great,
Here I am,
Dead.
You never made it to retirement,
Everything you ever worked for,
Gone,
And you’re stuck
In some kind of undefinable limbo,
Then,
You hear a voice that says:
You’re not stuck at all,
Come with me.
The next thing you know
You’re in some kind of eternal infinite agony
That must be hell
And you realize
Just how lucky you were
Before everything got worse,
And you don’t even want to think about
What comes next.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

#Alone


No sound,
No voice,
No laughter,
No eye contact,
No tears,
No facial expressions,
No body language,
No appearance,
No touch,
No skin on skin,
No embrace,
No kiss.

It’s the new friendship,
Texting and posting,
Liking and sharing,
Friending,
Friending,
All day long,
#Alone.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

A Second Cup?


If I awoke some morning and you were dead . . .

Pardon my indelicacy my darling,
I will begin again.

If I awakened early one morning,
Tiptoeing out of the bedroom
So as not to disturb,
Knowing how you like to sleep late,
Being retired and elderly,
Like me,
Having no need for early morning hours . . .

If I put on my slippers,
Padding quietly down the hall,
Into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee . . .

If I did these things and settled into my favorite chair,
Sipping the sugary sweet yet bitter hot coffee,
Easing into an awakening that only fully comes
After a second cup . . .

If I had finished my first cup
And still heard no stirring from bed or bath . . .

If I returned to our bedroom and found you undisturbed,
If I placed my hand on your shoulder and called your name,
If you did not respond to my vigorous shaking,
If you were without breath,
If you had slipped silently away sometime during the night . . .

If I contemplated all that now lay before me,
The myriad heartsick obligations . . .

Before it all began,
Before it was all set in motion,
Before engaging with the somber day’s duties,
Would I make a second cup of coffee?
Would you?


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

What Else Can I Call It?


Once in a while
I catch a sideways glimpse of her
In awkward profile
And see her anew,
As one not in love might see her:
Plain,
Ordinary.
And for a moment I wonder,
Am I really in love with her,
This ordinary girl?

Then she turns to me and speaks,
Her eyes full of surprise and laughter,
She says my name
And the sound of myself upon her lips
Fills me with joy.

If this is not love,
What else can I call it?


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved