Bruce Majors
Bruce Majors lives in East Tennessee on the Tennessee River. Majors has published poetry and nonfiction in such magazines as Ontologica, Clapboard House, River Poets Journal, Pinesong, and in numerous other lit mags. He has published two chapbooks, the latest being "Last Flight of Angels", a full length book of poetry, "The Fields of Owl Roost" and compiled an anthology, "Southern Light, Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets" featuring Robert Morgan, Bill Brown, and Dan powers. Mr. Majors is a member of the Chattanooga and Knoxville writers guilds.
Published 10/07/17
Published 10/07/17
"Dark Rooms"
I want a dark room made of mirrors,
to close my eyes to the room,
crouch in the corner and hide,
to say the rosary, pray a prayer
as worn as I am worn.
I want a dark hallway to whisper in.
Crawl back and forth
along the walls, inside the walls
like a rat searching
for some forbidden thing.
I want to be painted black
in the room of mirrors
so no one can see,
my voice to be
a whisper that scratches out
transparent words, meaningless utterances,
warnings from the dark.
I want the sun to be black
with a red-painted mouth,
to rest in the curl of night under a sky
without stars or in a hole with rocks and roots,
growling out useless penances
no one hears.
"Suspended By Air"
Holding this invisible rail
suspended by air,
axles of clouds like dream cliffs
appear.
Above that,
clear blue
possibility.
Rising on thermals like eagles
searching for higher winds,
soaring always
into the delirious, burning sun… dreams
like melting wax:
Icarus
falling upon rocks of the sea.
"Quietness for Someone Who Has Been In the Noise"
(1)
Below the rim of ridges
at the edge of unplowed fields
two young owls play with a rabbit.
Blood squirts from the rabbit’s side.
He squeals.
The owls are delirious.
I am learning to see winter
as a cruel, bloody rose.
(2)
An acorn drops into a small pond.
Ringlets scatter until tension
shakes the ponds surface.
I am stricken with furiousness
of advancing afternoon.
Insects shimmer in delicate light.
(3)
I walk in fields for the way they look.
Slowly evening turns gold
and settles in a haze.
If I stand still and listen
I can hear the advancing shadows
whisper my name.
(4)
Cool rain
wets my face and hair.
Water drips from every leaf.
Mists rise up from the ground.
When I step into air,
wind finds me.
I want a dark room made of mirrors,
to close my eyes to the room,
crouch in the corner and hide,
to say the rosary, pray a prayer
as worn as I am worn.
I want a dark hallway to whisper in.
Crawl back and forth
along the walls, inside the walls
like a rat searching
for some forbidden thing.
I want to be painted black
in the room of mirrors
so no one can see,
my voice to be
a whisper that scratches out
transparent words, meaningless utterances,
warnings from the dark.
I want the sun to be black
with a red-painted mouth,
to rest in the curl of night under a sky
without stars or in a hole with rocks and roots,
growling out useless penances
no one hears.
"Suspended By Air"
Holding this invisible rail
suspended by air,
axles of clouds like dream cliffs
appear.
Above that,
clear blue
possibility.
Rising on thermals like eagles
searching for higher winds,
soaring always
into the delirious, burning sun… dreams
like melting wax:
Icarus
falling upon rocks of the sea.
"Quietness for Someone Who Has Been In the Noise"
(1)
Below the rim of ridges
at the edge of unplowed fields
two young owls play with a rabbit.
Blood squirts from the rabbit’s side.
He squeals.
The owls are delirious.
I am learning to see winter
as a cruel, bloody rose.
(2)
An acorn drops into a small pond.
Ringlets scatter until tension
shakes the ponds surface.
I am stricken with furiousness
of advancing afternoon.
Insects shimmer in delicate light.
(3)
I walk in fields for the way they look.
Slowly evening turns gold
and settles in a haze.
If I stand still and listen
I can hear the advancing shadows
whisper my name.
(4)
Cool rain
wets my face and hair.
Water drips from every leaf.
Mists rise up from the ground.
When I step into air,
wind finds me.