Sample Poems by Kevin Hadduck

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I Will Look for You, Although

in a wheel rut, where tires stir the melting snow,
the form of a bird disappears.

Flocks of blackbirds and starlings and sparrows
do not pause at its grave.

Feathers and bones lie askew, and rags of skin,
food for the ravening spring.

This bird will not rise like sprout from seed.
The ants digest its memory.

The buds do not remember the flowers, and I see
nothing here in this mud,

and nothing among the chill branches of April to prove,
my friend, that we will meet again.

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Heron

It stands hieroglyphic against the reeds.
If it does not move, you will not see
the odd angle of the tucked leg.
Only the delicate fray of feathers
along its neck shifts with the cat-tails.

The mud along the bank keeps no record
of it thrashing, pulling away toward water,
feeling the teeth crushing its leg bone,
the claws grasping at its wing or parrying
the thrust of its long and frantic beak.

Still, the marsh waters leach the fallen leaves
and hide as well the darting bass and bluegill.
Roots of willow twine with muskrat bones.
Paired stilts and coupled bitterns weave,
while bobcats and horned owl wake to ravel.

For now, healing, the heron waits-mock stoic
in a lacework of plum thicket and goldenrod—
for a necessary shad or a crawfish scrambling.
The heron dips, then tips its head to swallow,
its motion, a brief hiatus in the frieze.

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A.M.

In that long hour,
from rubbing my eyes
at light pushing through curtains
to stretching on the first sock—
In that long hour
before the mundane day
takes me to task—
In that long hour
passing quickly as it does,
as the egg sizzles
and the Times lies waiting—
In that long hour
of slow rising,
the mind asks,
bold in its cover of fog,

Has all been done well?
Have my years made a story?
Do my days scan
and hours parse
and minutes connote
like fine diction?

Outside, a dog’s bark
mixes with traffic,
a door slams,
a small plane crosses
the forgetful sky

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Among Trees

Among trees and without
the indifference of a cat,
I am envious.

I feel the same air, the same rain,
the same drying of the sun,

but I do not green with sunlight,
do not feel the slow surge of water
through the soles of my feet.

I am not the earth’s
as trees are the earth’s,
and the sky is an absence,
the stars too distant
for wings or for relevance,

except
I see the prodigal evening sun
flame among the leaves
its lavender and orange.

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Killer Tornado Hits Haven
Last night, stumbling among words
Like a child among heavy tools,
A reporter at the scene said,
“A killer tornado, one mile in diameter,
Cut a swath three blocks wide through Haven.”
One woman, hands balled up into fists,
Kept trying to speak. Another, smiled,
Shook her head, and walked away shrugging.

This year, as every, someone will win
An award for journalism or poetry
Or some feat involving the adroit use
Of language: “He who most adeptly
Pinned the label ‘cow’ or ‘beef’
On the rump of the bull that just passed
Through a china shop.” Meanwhile,
The thing itself, all muscle and bone
And hot breath, goes on stampeding.

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Alleluias of the Red Tail

Drive, fleck-breasted bullet, down.
Plummet, plunge, pierce-eyed plume.
Test the aim of talons, bow-string taut.

Lay siege my word-lack, lackluster
Language, razor-wing; rend wide
The curtain-sky, slice cloud-veils.

Pounce, grasp mouse and mole, rapt,
Fear- stunned, mumbling close among
Furrowed wheat and fallow. Rise, raise

Me, mouse, groundling, in your gullet,
Dying at your every word-wing beat.
In fire-hunger, aery alchemist, consume.

In the heat of heart-blood, I, convert,
Will become body, embodied, bidden
Voice, your throat's cry, here to hail,

Call, declare you, your dominion,
Draw into chorusing your choirs,
Singing, winging your alleluias.

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More

The young lover asks,
“Why do you still bring me flowers?”
“I am wooing you,” replies the Friend.

The eternal pose of Love is wooing.
The constant stirring in Love is longing.

Our bellies are full. We are content;
yet we stand with mouths open,
crying, “More!”