The Story So Far

poetry and prose by daniel hurst

[danielhurstpoetry]

A Migration of Butterflies

I have heard when butterflies migrate, it is their children, several generations later, endowed with the great train of memories of those that came before, who died learned, added their own thread, weaving a continuous pattern, impossibly complex - each unaware of the destination, but keen on the route - an instinctual purpose passed down by a hundred hundred lives to the last butterflies, who arrive. I think this might be the origin of déjà vu, when the mind remembers when it should not. Like now: I feel strange, as if I have talked with you, trusted you, opened my heart a hundred hundred times before. This may be our first time as friends, but I am as if in migration, not knowing the destination, but knowing the way.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Considering a Purchase

My hand lifts the case of beer, waits: The cans gently clamor, calling - soft melody, sweetwater - My tongue listens, my mind enamored By the crisp toll, the promise Of an empty song.

Bound to a mast, wreathed In madness, he orders His crew untie him, lost In the music. Sharp teeth await In the depths. His heart Is heavy with longing, his lungs Crave the drowning.

[danielhurstpoetry]

In another life, when we were cats

Tacky couches, flower prints bowls made of glass sunlight blades through knotted brush a thin, but parted path

the creak of shutters, peeling paint the grind of wheels on streets a winding garden laid with stones a blanket's warmth, extruding feet

a sudden skirmish, lines of blood a full-bodied stretch a chime of bells, a bark of laughter a long, and well earned rest

[danielhurstpoetry]

These nights

I

Let me wake from walking dreams

and nights marked by the grandfather's tone

(such things that haunt me in my sleep

such things that haunt me as I dream to sleep)

Let me toss around that old cliche

"The darkest nights still have their dawn"

(but tonight is close to yesterday--

yesterday I did not have to dream)

I run my fingers on the banister.

You stood here I know.

In the night I can faintly hear

your footsteps on the floorboards.

Let me sleep.

My eyes are heavy and weary,

weary of these dreams.

Let me sleep.

II

I have measured out my nights in melatonin

and the hot tea I drank.

Coffee is for the morning,

still someplace where they hid the sun.

You left your fingerprint somewhere

I found it once among many things

(and your scent

still lingering like a wraith in this place)

I've grown to accustomed to the clicks of this keyboard

tack tack tack tack tack

like small needles reminding me

you're not on the other end.

I've lost something I think

or hid it in my closet with the other things

the other things--oh God--

those other things

III

In mingled memories we love like we used to

This dream: I've forgotten for a moment and still believe

(but the morning, when it comes

shall take this all way)

shall take this all away

the morning, when it comes

shall take this all away

IV

I see your face caught in every window pane

as if you've been in each of these buildings

and the scene plays itself endlessly out

(again and again):

I remember when I was here

doing this and you said

"I love you"

I remember. I'm sure you did.

Why do we play this game

where no one wins

but it feels like only I lose?

Checkmate

V

Here the students pass, to and fro

talking of things I don't know.

Their phones. Their phones are lit up

with the simple words of someone.

Someone. I remember someone;

a time when my phone vibrated too

and I walked down the hall drunk with

thumbs and fingers, solely focused.

We can only touch through the air now.

Live by the same sun, hide from the same rain

See the same glitterdust stars we used to watch,

Our backs on warm, summer driveways

I can feel the weight of summer

and the weight of water; the weight of the sin

I'm long convinced is not, but dangerous--

Yes, promises are so dangerous, aren't they?

VI

I cannot sleep to sleep

I cannot dream to dream.

when my eyes are closed

It is not darkness that I see.

It is quiet now, in these halls.

You came here only once, your memory is not so strong

(yet still I see you as you were

with that coat I found for you; we were soaked)

but the rain comes down now, reminding me of you

(we kissed then, in the elevators,

like we kissed that night in the rain--our first

we were soaked then too)

and the stillness reminds me of you

(in every moment that I had, I thought of you

in wakefulness and sleep

I thought of you)

and this ache in my chest reminds me

that there's something missing.

Something

Oh, God. I think I know

VII

I too have heard the mermaids singing each to each

I wonder now if they will sing to me.

I wonder now if I will wake

and on hearing voices, drown

I say my prayers

(Oh Father, who art in heaven)

This is not the first time I have prayed

(Oh God, bring her back)

VIII

These nights that I think of you;

your memory is fading like the afterimage of light

I barely have enough of you left to think that maybe

maybe this will hurt.

tack tack tack tack

These nights

These nights are getting

IX

dong! dong! dong!

X

easier

[danielhurstpoetry]

Self Portrait at Thirty

When I was young, I had believed My destiny the mountain peak In grand repute, terribly austere Exceeding that of man. When I was young, I had believed My words the storms against The chiseled sky, vast, ineffable Exceeding that of time. Now as a man, I've come to see I am a climber, unprepared A vibrant body left to rot In the blizzards of that bluff - And should I yet, beneath the bleak Pupil of its granite gaze Rise to echelon or trek its sylvan base - The mountain's mine to die upon.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Current

love, deferred; stone, dropped from a bridge at night. splash, heard ripples lost in the dark.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Self Portrait: Star

sitting, fingers still workless computer empty hours ache across a stagnant screen mind wet with time burning

dripping, bright, but beneath taut flame: the guts, churning desire slowly consumed revealed the unwavering iron heart of apathy

in the quiet, the light fails, brilliant snap

eyes glaze over in sudden collapse.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Self Portrait: Dawn

i am a city at dawn flush with new light streets warmed by a new day flowers unfurl with petite wings songs that lace the new sky trees bend ears up to the melody buildings gleam in the sound bathe coy in the blue like a gem.

i am the city at dawn, and You: the sunrise unaware to the music of your warmth the symphony of your radiance.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Red Glare

How spangled the cheer At the Capital steps: Flagpoles as spears Rattle the breadth

Of this strange Mississippi Bubbled with red, Groping and gripping At thresholds, and then

Their frothing body surges And like Noah in retreat Congress hastens from the scourges Of raining, reckless tweets.

And congressmen, in their demure Standing at the flooded gate Feign their petty horror At the fervor they create.

What shoreline is revealed As their churning waters recede? A bloated, barren field Where justice is deceit.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Rushmore

What American Before the granite gaze of our forefathers Would not weep For the awe of their stoic visage? What injustice could survive Intact, their cold and righteous observation? How patriotic To make of the mountainside Monuments in our image, Deface, bare and beautiful That holy cliff. To stand absolved In the shade of our Fathers’ long shadow.

[danielhurstpoetry]

V

A Sestina

The beating rhythem, tangled, never Pausing to question the direction: going Forward to an ancesteral insticnt, to A home given leave of winter's grasp. They give Their hearts to the cacophonous shape over you. We pause: a moment's awe a tithe we offer up

To the fleeting moment. As they came, so they swoop up Above the trees and vanish. Each season they arrive, never Failing their insticnt. A blessing to know a purpose you May not understand. A relentless drive to keep going Until a destination reveals itself: this land will give You a home. Even yet unknown, a berth is given to

All Earth's children. We could fly ourselves into The belt of the horizon, resting only when we've given up - Not a failure of determination, but a fate you give Yourself. Who can say this destination was never Ordained? That a fleeting glimpse of another path is going Past only as reflections in wide lakes beneath you?

Any lake you light upon is a lake given to you Others may yet protest their discontent, yet given to All by birth is a purpose unmarred by the bleats going Continuously like the cacophony of wing beats which lifted up Your initial ascent. Land where you land: lake or shore, never Surrender that instinct to the wings of another, that give

Their shadow like a darkened crown to lands who give Them no alegiance; Her shadow eclipses them, and you. There will be others who form your flying shape, never Defined in number, nor guaranteed in abundance - they are yours to Enjoy, as you are their contentment. Loft up Your gangly shape and relieve those who share in your going,

Who may yet share in your landing - later going Separately to their own shapes, or, in staying, give A shared purpose: brief, yet bound up More tightly by the choice. Here I am with you Presently, no plan to arrive, and no promise to Remain, yet I find myself content. The Earth could never

Have known which wind took up our shapely going And yet our wings give beat to an instinct we never Understood: to this likely lake lighted by me, and you.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Environmentalism

look at the cat bathing in the sun. she has no schedule.

around her passes anything. quietly she naps.

think of the sun blazing silently. a dewdrop of light

slowly evaporating. think of the sun. he cannot think of you.

remember the mountains. children of cataclysm waiting

placidly, sleeping soundly beneath the sun. they owe us nothing.

[danielhurstpoetry]

3-Bark Waltz

A small and empty bed. A water bowl, still filled. Clumps of hair collect by walls and under chairs. We swept. We swept. And still (the echo of of your measured barks, the soft and silent smile of your tail, your wet and curious nose that probed for scraps, or pets beneath my arm) you linger in every hall and corner. There’s not a broom made long enough to reach these nooks, nor could understand how on earth to clean them.

Let them stay dirty. Let me remember well how wide with wonder you saw the world, the reckless curiosity you matched it with, the unyielding zeal you gave to tennis balls. May I make proud your silent heart, which only knew to love, and to be kind.

You waited for me once, pacing by the door ears perked and trained to catch the growling lumber of the school bus, announcing my return with your three-bark waltz. Wait for me, again my faithful, loyal friend behind the azure door. Though I still have much to do, keep an ear perked to hear the distant sputter of this bus’ last and slow approach to deliver me home.

Rest in peace, Shadow. Until we meet again.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Halloween as Rufio

You know I don’t take pictures, but there’s one I'm always glad I did. You dressed as Rufio from Hook that Halloween: lunged forward,

your plastic foil stretched and aimed to kill that pesky Captain Hook, your hand across the hollow of your mouth to sing the cock’s

battle cry, your eyes aflame with wine and bloodlust - a fierceness matched by any ocean storm. You made that costume

all yourself. You bought the pieces separate from half a dozen stores we searched through, hunting for that perfect leather skirt.

You never found it, but you carried on and, from what you could, you improvised. You cut the leather into strips, braided

them with beads, and draped the whole contraption over a pair of pants. You sewed your tunic from a shirt we found at Kohls, a vest

from Goodwill, and blood - because someone decided not to use the handy thimble. But blood is nothing; Rufio wears red

to hide his wounds from enemies, and friends, up until his last wound, delivered like his first feast in neverland

unbelieveably made real; impaled at the tip of Captain Hook’s dark stare. More time, he bled. More time to parry left

and leave the scoundrel open. The Captain had his due, after a long and perilous exchange with Pan, beneath the crushing jaws

of the crocodile clock. Tick tock the Captain always said; he knew his time would come. But, on that chilly Halloween

you were not the martyr to inspire Pan, not the sacrifice that slid along the steel arm of plot. You were the victory

the bloodied hero, having slain the scum, denying the Crock his prize. With blade raised high you were not the rebel without a cause,

but the raging wave that took the deck to the Lost Boys’ choir of your name. You were always this, the fierce and wild

storm, the warrior defiant. Though you often doubt, you are - wherever you are - a Rufio, triumphant.

[danielhurstpoetry]

A Sea of Eyes

Gather close your Facebook posts. Bundle all your Likes. Count your Friends, all neatly stored. View the pictures of your life. You just wrote a witty status, Posted quite the article. Watch and wait, you patient hunter, Nimrod of the web.

At first, there comes a single buzz From the iPhone at your hip. Another few just after lunch. You’ve gathered quite the haul.

Make another post: some recent news, Then a picture from your week. A hunter knows its varied prey, The tactics of the kill. And you know them very well. Your Wall’s adorned in trophies Silent in reward.

You are the cheetah, on the prowl, Muscles ripe for blood. You are the sailor, at the bow, With spear and wild eyes Hungry against the ocean’s chop For that alabaster hide.

Mmm! And when you play that Youtube mix - Ahh! When you hear that song - You gaze upon your gathered trove And sigh in soft contentment. This is the life. This is your life. Your fame and fortune grow. Lose yourself within the den Beneath the fragrant smoke. Gather with the others, lost Inside their reveries -

Graze among the golden grass. Swim beneath the sea. Lay your weapons at your feet. Conspire in your sleep.

[danielhurstpoetry]

This time, I mean it.

I know each time you grow more weary. I almost hit that turning car, I know. I'm really sorry dear, I'm sorry.

I dropped your jar of sweet Italian cherries This is the second jar this week to go. I know each time you grow more weary.

The TV set was hard to carry I didn't mean to drop it on your toe I'm really sorry dear, I'm sorry.

I drank too much, and threw up all the sherry At least I made it too the toilet though. I know each time you grow more weary.

No reservations for our dinner party? We planned this outing several months ago. I'm really sorry dear, I'm sorry.

I know you tire of this story Each night, collecting on your brow like snow. I know each time you grow more weary. I'm really sorry dear, I'm sorry.

[danielhurstpoetry]

Death is a gentle wave

Death is a gentle wave lapping at your feet you've dipped a toe and barely knew it's easy, then to take a step then another deeper in until around your neck the ocean sways the land is gone you've floated out

Death is a quiet wave it is the shadow of a fish a shimmering knife of flesh with it's perfect twin beneath and later wrapped in sheets when we believe ourselves alone it is our lover still half asleep pressing against our body

Death is a pretty wave from the mountainside the trees withdraw leaves run to red then wash to gold and we sigh we sigh so happily we snap them up in pictures we crush them under shoes we do not think this is to warn we do not think to watch ourselves