A Different End to Daylight

There’s bones among the thorns tonight—
the treetops brush the wind,
and clover and grasses quiver and glow.
—Why, even the chipmunks sit up to listen.
All nature seems to pause over
my quiet colloquy as best it can.
I sit in the rocking chair that I built myself,
oh, maybe twenty-five, thirty years ago,
a knockoff of a Maloof chair, for sure—
but a pretty good one none the less—
and talk to a person I no longer believe in,
someone who still concentrates all
the consecrated ground in a blessing
to things that feed in the distant sky—
while a rainbow fades into the sunset.
No pot of gold again tonight, folks.
Just the baronial wings of bats
as the air fills with their filial faith,
and ends in a different end to daylight.

Published by extrasimile

define: extra: excess, more than is needed, required or desired; something additional of the same kind. define: simile: a simile is a type of figurative language, language that does not mean exactly what it says, that makes a comparison between two otherwise unalike objects or ideas by connecting them with the words “like” or “as.” The reader can see a similar connection with the verbs resemble, compare and liken. Similes allow an author to emphasize a certain characteristic of an object by comparing that object to an unrelated object that is an example of that characteristic. define: extra: an minor actor in a crowd scene

7 thoughts on “A Different End to Daylight

  1. No, Thomas, you should. You’ve had an interesting life. [Remember the old Chinese curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.’] When I was a kid we lived next to a boy who was crazy for all things Indian. He made his own arrows and I think even his bows. I sort of got an introduction through him to a much different culture than baby boom Long Island. I think he eventually went out west and did something with the some Indian group. His name is James Mische [spelling is very problematic; tha’s how it is pronounce. When we moved, I lost touch with him.
    By the way that’s quite a nice picture.
    Don’t knock doing good. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Besides, you didn’t want to be Steven King, did you?

  2. Yes, as a boy, in Vermont, on a summer’s night, we’d sit down by the lake on the rocks, and watch the bats fly around, scooping up insects, as the night sky formed. What a pity time has moved on. I could sit on those rocks forever.
    By the way, what is the tribal college movement? I’ve never heard of it.

  3. There’s bones among the thorns tonight—
    I wish I’d written that line, Jim. Wow. This continues your lyric group, and I just love poem after poem after poem. There is always the ExtraSimile bite to the poem, however:
    and talk to a person I no longer believe in,
    someone who still concentrates all
    the consecrated ground in a blessing
    to things that feed in the distant sky—
    I’ can actually do without a pot of gold. Ethel and I did not retire with much. Being in the tribal college movement does that to people. But we’ll take:
    Just the baronial wings of bats
    as the air fills with their filial faith,
    and ends in a different end to daylight.
    These lines remind me of when we lived in Shawano, Wisconsin. The bats in the air at night were unbelievable and did end daylight in a different way. Unfortunately, sometimes they got into the house, and we’d had to knock them out of the sky to get them back outside.

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