by Harry Calhoun
out on my back deck, looking into the woods
night turned barely morning, still almost black
as the Labrador by my side, I have a notepad
to capture my thoughts after dreaming

of my anger at some woman
who pointed a rifle at me
and several members of her household
and I yelled at her because my parents

always told me never to point a gun
at others, even unloaded, and my yelling
pierced my sleep and my wife woke me
from the nightmare and I remembered

my mom pointing a loaded rifle at my dad
and remembered her ordering me to load
a gun and shoot my father and
I remember again the dream

and how angry I was at the woman
for violating the rules and when
I came back inside my notepad

was empty

except for

what a beautiful spring morning,
azaleas pink and purple and the grass
high and green and ready for mowing
Harry Calhoun writes
poetry, articles and essays.
His most recent chapbook
is "The Black Dog and the
Road." His work has
recently appeared in Chiron
Review, Chiaroscuro,
Orange Room Review, Bird’s
Eye reView, Abbey,
Monongahela and many
other journals. He is the
editor of
A Pig in a Poke
magazine. He blogs at
Calhoun and the poetry
game. He has an online
Poems," and has also
published a trade
paperback, "I knew
Bukowski like you knew a
rare leaf."
Gemini Magazine
Above photo by John Pagliuca
Top photo by David A. Bright