Eulogy for November

Frosted Field by Richard Reeve

A time of focusing,

first noticed when pushing

toward finals in college,

papers were due –

finding a seat in the library

a challenge even after midnight.

But it goes back way, way before

the academics set up shop in Paris.

Not only in the daily drain of the light –

I see it in the deer out back,

foraging with strict intent

as snow cover now all but inevitable,

November’s curtain, ready to fall.

(Poems from this recent run are collected here: Eulogy for November: a chapbook)

Aurora Consurgens

Sunrise 10,000 ft. Above Lake Michigan by Richard Reeve

When our paths cross

I owe a huge debt,

Pseudo Thomas.

Years on end you toiled,

and yet the flame never extinguished.

In your sealed retort

the living joined with the dead,

while I, oddly both

overdrawn and over nourished,

struggle to make mere charcoal.

It matters not.

More than fools gold,

you prepared instead

factoids of a different order –

a priceless new dawn.

I am the debt I owe.

(For a long and wild journey into the imaginal: Von Franz’s Aurora Consergens and Jung’s Mysterium Coniunctionis.)

Panegyric for Death

Mussel Shell by Richard Reeve

A convoluted theory

poured from the radio,

decrying the current

cultural fixation

with certainty.

We need room for mystery!

A mandate to breath in our doubts,

drink down our yearning

for negative capability.

The claim (seems simple enough):

dark matter strewn throughout the universe,

by implication throughout


a crossroads,

our intersection

with another dimension.

I’m not sure what to do with that

but leave it here in this poem.

Let us lift then, a tiny cup

tossed up with the tide

amongst piles of detritus

strewn across this beach.

Though not nearly enough to quench this thirst,

it will have to do.

Let us sip rain water from a shell.

A toast to dark matter!

Obscura Materia,

Our Lady of the Portal,

Our Black Madonna,

Certainty sown through uncertainty,

She that awaits us all.

After and Weary

Sentinel by Richard Reeve

Funny the ease these days

finding a place to spread

the blue and red native blanket-

idyls emerge effortlessly now.

Not so, when we were yet together.

Can it still be an idyll if empty,

without the leavening a couple supplies

passing a piece of torn baguette,

a slice of apple? Can dyadic absence

fulfill nature’s longing?

Let the chickadee and titmouse reign here.

This lot but another promise-

another solitary watch tonight-