Three Poems by J.B. Hogan

 

Prescient Vision

Eleven, weak and sickly, burning,

eyes watery, head aching,

breathing shallow, labored,

as when infant, then saved

by loving hands and whiskey

on cloth, now older, alone, feverish,

legs stretched tightly for fleeting

moment without pain, suddenly an

image, clear, undeniable;

prescient vision laid clear in sight,

add sixty-four, another bed, another time,

same fire, same pain, one difference --

the end at seventy-five, the

last time-flickering like film,

maybe just bad delirium, or

self-fulfilling prophecy, best shunned,

delayed, stayed some while more

from final, inescapable truth.

Panic Mode

Sets in at different times, but

mostly later, when there's snow

on the roof or when the shingles

have mostly fallen off.

Things start to speed up and

there's this feeling that time

is running out and you're not

going to reach that goal

that has been your calling

since you were quite young.

You're driven to finish, to

work harder, faster, to leave a 

legacy for somebody to build on, for

somebody to maybe just notice.

Up ahead you see that end date, the

last one, the sunset you won't see, the

sunrise without you, when there are

no more jobs to do, no more tasks to

accomplish, no more time.

And you push too hard, you

jump the gun, you say things

you shouldn't, like I 

love you or I hate you when

you were just trying to shorten the

time it takes to be those things, do

those things, live to the fullest, 

one last time.

But that's all it is -- panic mode.

Ease back, let up on the throttle,

try to live in regular time, as if

these were lots of it left, as if

you didn't know what was ahead.

And calm yourself, relax,

take in the fading sunset

as if it were the first sunrise,

as if there were infinitely

more to come, and that you 

would see every last one of them.

Phases

At first waxing, like the moon,

new into hopeful sliver,

joyful crescent to quarter,

slowly brightening, slowly growing,

waxing gibbous, light shining brighter,

all full, complete, known,

all felt, seen, with perpetual

hope in the light --

yet with time, change,

no permanency brooked,

no lengthy stay permitted,

waning then, no longer full,

slowly dimming, slowing declining,

waning gibbous, at partial shine,

to the waning sliver, the 

final darkness of the black

new moon, this cycle

not repeating, not returning,

the back side of the moon broached,

lightless night, unchanging,

in permanent darkness.

J.B. Hogan has published over 280 stories and poems and eleven books, including Bar Harbor, Bounty Riders, Time and Time Again, Mexican Skies, Tin Hollow, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, The Rubicon, Fallen, The Apostate, and Angels' in the Ozarks (nonfiction, local professional baseball history).  He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas.