IN THE AIR

We Just Didn’t Know

The seas got rough

And only got rougher;

We looked for Captain

But we couldn’t find him;

We just didn’t know quite what to do.

The water came rushing

Through holes in the hull

And we tried to plug ‘em

But new ones kept coming;

We looked at each other,

Our faces familiar;

The only faces we ever knew.

We ran up the ladder

And found the deck;

The night came in, dark as the sea

And the tips of our fingers began to freeze;

I cried a bit but no one noticed.

Some grabbed the rail

And some grabbed the mast;

The boat listed and began to roll;

I felt the waves embrace my legs.

The sea was loud, as loud as laughter;

“So strange, so odd,” I thought to myself

When out of the darkness I heard someone yell

“Maybe we should say a prayer,”

But no one could think of a thing to say,

No prayer, no poem, no homily

When all we needed was a word or two,

A few simple lines, fitting and decent;

We looked at each other,

Our faces familiar;

The only faces we ever knew;

We just didn’t know quite what to do.

I’ll Be a Sailor

Sailors flee from land

To leave their pain behind;

They cannot bear the loss of love

That pulsed through arms

That reached for them at night,

But grew tired

In the course of time.

Sailors are deluded:

The ocean offers no asylum;

The sea is not a refuge

And loss cannot be thrown away

Or left upon the wharf;

A sailor cannot fly from grief

Regardless of the speed or strength

Of some great ship

That wrests him from the land:

Engines fail, sails tear

And that same ship returns, in time,

To that same dock from which it came.

I realize these things

But, tomorrow, I will forget

And will come to think,

As sailors do,

That I have no choice

But to find a boat

To take me past the thin grey line:

A boundary that, today,

I understand quite well

Is one that can’t be crossed.

I Can’t Leave

I watched from my window

As the rain came down

But then it stopped:

The garden bathed

In delicate light

And peace prevailed

Across my yard.

I heard the breeze

Whisper my name,

Invited me to step outside,

Breathe the air,

Cross the yard

And join the world,

But I refused:

I cannot leave;

I don’t know why;

I just can’t leave.

If you love me,

Don’t come by

To draw me out:

You’ll never get me

To open the door:

I am captive

To a gravity

That emanates

From a hidden place

That lies somewhere

Within me.

My work is done,

My calendar is clear,

No problems to solve:

No reason to sit

Behind a desk

With nothing to write

For hours at a time

Or stand by the window

Like a sentry

Bound forever

To his post.

It is simply the case

That I am unable

To venture out,

Cross the yard

And take my place

Among the living;

I have a purpose

That keeps me here

I can’t describe

And don’t understand;

Some critical cause,

Nebulous and vague,

Yet unrelenting;

I surrender to it everyday

But don’t know why

Or what it is.

The ceiling

Is my only sky

And the only music

I care to hear

Is the silent sonata

Of empty rooms;

I am restrained

By a confounding tether

That runs relentless

Through my consciousness;

It holds me close

And won’t let go;

I need you to know,

For what it’s worth,

That I won’t stray

Beyond these walls;

I will stay inside

For as long as I can,

I just can’t leave.

Where I’d Like to Go

I don’t want to go to Paris,

No I don’t;

And I don’t want to sit

On an old stone seat

At the Coliseum;

I have no urge to stand

In a Scottish field

Or linger beneath

A lattice wheel

That turns in tedious rhythm

Atop a mill

In Amsterdam.

Oh, but I’d give my world

And so much more

To sit, once more,

Upon that step

In my old house

Where once I sat,

Now long gone,

Too young to read

But deeply immersed

In a picture book

In which I saw,

One fine day,

Row upon row

Of ancient seats

That fill the Coliseum,

And gorgeous heather,

Mystic green,

Across a Scottish field,

And thought I heard

The creak and churn

Of a windmill’s wheel

Coming from those pages

And saw,

As though I were right there,

Parisian men and women,

Stately and deliberate,

Sitting at tables along the street,

Starring at traffic passing by,

Discussing fantastic things;

And all the while,

Upon that step,

Now long gone,

I prayed that mother

Would take me

To those far-off places,

At that moment,

Then and there.

In the Air

I’ve abandoned the ground,

I am lighter than air.

The sky is my ocean;

I float within it;

I glide like a fish;

I sleep as I drift;

It’s placid and peaceful

And when I get tired

I draw up the evening

Like a warm coverlet.

A cloud once told me

How easy it is:

“Just breathe,” she said

As I floated by

And now I move

Quite effortlessly,

As high or low

As I care to be.

You can’t see the world

If you live within it:

If you want to know it

You should hover above it:

You’d be surprised

By the things you see:

The world is a painting,

A grand mosaic;

The trees are circles.

Parasol green

And the fields and farms

Are perfectly square;

Rivers and streams

Are lines through the land

Like calligraphy

Across a page,

And the seas are rippled

Azure sheets,

Dotted with boats

Between the waves.

There is no sound

But for the rhythm

Of your breathing

And the quiet flutter

Of butterflies;

They float in the breeze

And fan themselves with

Powdered wings;

Seagulls graze

In the thick of the fog

And gorge themselves

With drizzle and salt.

To float, no doubt,

Is the best way to go;

I take my time;

I don’t plan a route;

I wave each night

To the sorry moon

As I drift by

(Envious, I suppose, he is)

And now I know

That the sun can sing:

A different song

Each afternoon.

I dance in the air;

I wander in the wind;

I row with my hands and steer with my feet;

I have discovered a new way to live;

I school myself in the art of floatation.

Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. Until a few years ago, he wrote short stories exclusively but now divides his time equally between poetry and prose. Walter's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of literary publications including Lunch Ticket, The Carolina Quarterly, The Worcester Review, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Meniscus, Waxing and Waning and others. He is the author of "The Death of Weinberg: Poems and Stories" (Kelsay Books, 2023). More of Walter's work can be found at walterweinschenk.com.