To see Charlie’s other FootHills books:
https://www.foothillspublishing.com/2019/rossiter.html
From For Now:
Foreword
The poems in this collection have not previously been collected in my books. A glance at the table of contents will indicate the range of content that has attracted my poetic attention over the years. The poems are not presented in chronological order. For those curious about where I might have been when they were written, here’s where and when I’ve lived (rounded off a little).
Milwaukee – 1970s
Frederick, Md / Washington DC area – 1980s
Albany, NY – 90s
Oak Park / Chicago, IL – 90s – 2015
Bennington, VT – 2015 –
The Music of the Universe
The music of the universe is everywhere,
but you hear it best at places like the beach
in ocean waves, that sweet low monotone
like a hum and a heartbeat all in one,
and in the trees, I heard it once
in Alberta. It sounded like a steady
rain but it was the pre-dawn wind
shooshing the cottonwoods. I heard it
when I stepped outside beside the tent,
that dull-sharp sound from the
hard-packed earth along the trail,
and at the lakefront in Milwaukee,
that thrumming, and in the black fly buzz
of upstate spring. Sometimes I think
the Milky Way is a symphony. It seems
that way when you look up on a clear night
in one of those empty states
like Idaho or Nebraska. And if the music
of the universe is everywhere, then maybe
the universe itself is music and
if that’s so, it must be tuned to the key
of life to create a great cosmic harmonic
that includes all the tones we can imagine
and more, like one big chord coursing
through everything. Maybe the music
of the universe is life itself, and each of us
gets a little bit of time to play during our little bit
of time on stage, not necessarily in the spotlight,
but at least it’s our own small part and when we
play it with the right people, that’s when
the universe really sings. It’s as if
love’s the great conductor, the ultimate
sound system that brings out the best
and makes everything come through
a little bit better.
Foggy Nights in the Back Bedroom
On certain foggy nights
the only sound
in our third floor apartment
in our quiet neighborhood by the lake
was the sonorous lowing
of the foghorn
like an ancestral spirit
calling us home.
We were young and in love
in that first apartment
where shadows on the bedroom wall
shifted with the slow turning
of the lighthouse light
reflected off the sky
in patterns too complex to discern.
It’s hard to explain
how it all came together,
our love, the shifting light,
the lowing of the foghorn,
but I can tell you this:
making love in that back bedroom
was like curling up in the hand of God.
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FootHills Publishing/Michael Czarnecki 