Poetry by Deborah Stehr
Under the forever grey
It’s always 4 p.m.
No matter what the clock says
Time is trapped
Or is it?
Could be 9
Could be 5
Could be 29 o’clock in the month of Neveruary
Time is free to do whatever
Making an appointment is difficult
Keeping one is worse
I ride on a shuddering bus over a platinum river
The driver shifts a grumpy gear, touring towards Seaside
A pale shape glows through the thick clouds
The full moon usurps the day.
But hang on-
Is that the sun?
Shh. The white man next to me nods
We wait like hunters.
It’s still there; it’s just not doing anything
Skulking the grim above us
Lurking the edge of the brooding broiling coast
Lined with pines and driftwood hieroglyphs.
We dare not say its name.
Deborah Stehr is a published poet, narrative essay, and short story writer, as well as being a blogger and performer. She lives (once again) in the Portland Metro area. She has read her work at many open mics and venues in the Bay Area, California; Santa Fe and Albuquerque, New Mexico; and Portland, Oregon. She also writes humor, has her own humor blog, and has been writing and performing stand-up comedy. Deborah is also a practicing Shamanic Scribe and Holy Fool, meaning that she writes stories, poems, and ceremonies that show the poignant and often hilarious interconnection between humans, earth, and spirit.