Where is the Sun This Morning?
I would ask the ferryboat,
but it was swallowed by the sea.
The brick buildings do not tell where the sun went;
they closed their eyes with lowered shades.
A miner coughing up dust
is straddling a blaze white-sky.
He carries a pickaxe, lifting with tattooed arms.
He claims he the saw the sun in the tunnel,
near the rails for the coal,
going one way, all the way to China.
But he is drunk as a groom getting confidence
to spend his first night with his wife,
spinning in circles, world slanting, pockets
of notes what to say when alone,
wondering if his words are kind enough,
will she judge them, or will she leave him.
Where is the sun? It is late in the day.
The girl finding pansies for her hair,
twists them in a garland,
cannot see what she is doing.
Her fingers work with memory.
She seems to have the knack.
She sits on a wicker chair
with holes like Swiss cheese,
saying she misses the light
through the chair’s knotted openings
like fledglings waiting to be fed.
The sun is it not where it belongs.
When Weather Clears in Winter, Move Quick Before They Change
When there is a break in the weather,
beavers bring loose sticks, several at a time,
firming their structure, anticipating a long winter.
The beavers work though out the day
as light fades and chill darkens.
After a while, I do not see them anymore.
I concluded they were done. The silence
is loose sticks.
I head home, gathering firewood,
tossed it slowly in the chimney
until flame hits chopped cord wood.
Outside, snow kick in.
Sometimes, you have to do things when you can,
fast as you can, catching any breaks you get.
You never know when the unsettling will return.
Martin Willitts Jr is a Quaker, organic gardener, visual artists of paper cutouts, and retired Librarian. He has 6 full-length collections including the National Wild Earth Ecological Poetry Winner, Searching for What is Not There (Hiraeth Press 2013) and 28 chapbooks including national winner, William Blake, Not Blessed Angel But Restless Man (Red Ochre Press 2014). He recently won the Dylan Thomas International Poetry Award, for the 100th centennial, going to Swansea, Wales, Dylan's birthplace to read his poem.
Where Dylan Thomas once got marooned by the tide
is probably not marked by a plaque or monument of any kind.
I will not visit there, for I am not the kind who ever does.
Where is Worm’s Head? I will not know,
nor will I ever see it, for the sea brings only the stranded,
and I have no use for the sea.
Many times in this world, I have lost my place,
and many times I was put in my place, but neither suited me.
I am as strict as a sailboat through a narrow channel:
wheel turn and tack by the sail. I am the homebound kind,
far from my home, silent and cooperative in choppy seas.