Three poems

By Jeff Hardin

Overcast

Whole cities burning became the norm while

so many, unconcerned, didn’t bother looking up.

They chose to live there, a voice said, a chorus

agreeing. One historical moment alluded to another.

A friend said from now on, all would be overcast.

Did she mean we must go on without meaning

or assistance, just the sky’s receding silence?

Where rain began to fall, it had already fallen,

floods increasing. Where ash remained, there was

no more sackcloth. Testimonies had been submitted—

no reprieves. In the distance, drawing near, omissions,

evasions, and the manifold, unseen world their presence

brought forth, while we continued believing in certainty,

in providence—ourselves the rough beast already here.

Reckoning

Wasn’t it obvious, when words lost their

meanings, that no two people could stand

in the same space? Calling compassion

weakness meant not much more could be

sustained. Soon, every mask would be

laid aside. When riots began, voices called

for civility, bemoaned the breakdown

of law, but then were silent when the cop—

openly—refused the pleas of bystanders.

Sometimes history pivots, aims our thoughts

toward days we cannot see, nor would we

recognize them if granted another lifetime.

Some argued we were flying, not falling—

faces taut, glowing, hurtling toward impact.

Deafening

Each took up a role: beauty, acceptance, clarity.

One chose admonition, another proof. The trees

filled with the deafening sounds of insects before

the first hints of storm. Later, someone wondered

if a point had been passed from which we no longer

comprehended culpability, numbness, even grief

or repentance. Anywhere—any word—was exile.

Agreements were dismissed, the terms of which

few seemed to know or care about. Testimonies

were offered with such simplicity that many grew

suspicious, countering with arguments so intricate

that after a time everyone felt more overwhelmed

than before. Maybe the stage is collapsing, someone

said finally. Then a hush fell upon everyone, each

receding deeper inward, no word able to push back.

Jeff Hardin is the author of eight collections of poetry, most recently Coming into an Inheritance, Watermark, and A Clearing Space in the Middle of Being. His work has received the Nicholas Roerich Prize, The Donald Justice Prize, and the X. J. Kennedy Prize. The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Image, Swing, Bennington Review, The Laurel Review, and Southern Poetry Review have published his poems. After teaching for 32 years at Columbia State Community College in Columbia, TN, he recently retired. Visit his website: www.jeffhardin.weebly.com.