More than Enough

Take it out

and spin it in your hand

as if that is what

it was always meant to do.

These are the moments that see us

undeniably under,

promising things physically impossible

to come through with.

But still,

it’s the hope

that proceeds everything,

and most days,

that’s more than enough.

The Interim

A rock embedded in the wall

near the bottom of a canyon

knows nothing of the constant pressure,

the massive force under which it operates,

because that’s all it’s known

since before history,

or somewhere thereabouts.

You see, it’s all about perspective,

stretching that timeline to the

far reaches of our collective imagination,

neverminding the present troubles,

or at least shrinking them

to their true infinitesimal form.

But it’s so hard to practice this zen

when every horizon

illuminates the suffering of

everyone

who could be anyone

who could be you.

On a long enough timeline,

everyone’s survival rate

drops to zero,

but what we do in the spaces

between where the string is cut

is what matters,

whether we choose to

plant

or paint

or burn.

Consequences

Mom told me

if I messed with raw meat,

especially raw birds,

I’d get sick and die.

It was a practical warning,

since we lived out in the woods;

feral cats

and coyotes

and stray dogs

always leaving half-eaten presents

that she didn’t want me covered in,

because who knew when

the well would run dry,

and a drive to town

just for a shower at the Y

was always such a hassle.

So, defiantly standing in that trailer

in 198-whatever,

I laid a palm flat on the

package of uncooked chicken.

It was still frozen,

so cold, it didn’t take long

for my hand to begin to hurt.

I pulled it away,

and rubbing it, thought:

If I die, I’ll be in so much trouble.

Weather Report

She stands under a rotting eve,

waiting for the

storm to pass.

This has been going on

longer than she can remember;

seeking questionable shelter

from a life that

continuously dumps.

Regardless of her

ample experience,

she always finds herself

soaked in some way.

But right now,

as nothing physical but sunshine

threatens her day,

she hides,

because everything is a storm

when she refuses to see

anything else.

Trees flutter in the breeze,

no cars pass to thicken the air;

it’s all a reflection of

someone else’s ideal.

There’s little but desolation behind her,

and all she can see ahead

is the unveiled threats

of an uncaring world.

A cloud purer than watercolor

passes overhead,

but all she can envision

is the coming torrent.

She stands under a rotting eve,

waiting for the storm to pass,

but it never does.

Sunrise

We admit that we see things

only from forgotten corners;

a less than desirable perspective,

but it’s the one we’ve got,

flowering from a slant view,

we see little but refractions,

and we use those to create

our own infractions,

pulverizing the semblance

of community,

terrorizing any sense of

coming to balance.

Last night,

tonight,

tomorrow;

it all blends into a blandness

felt by all,

but acknowledged by none.

So we see these things

only from forgotten corners,

but sometimes

we can look to and from afar,

and can almost make out

a new horizon.

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.