et in pulverem reverteris

Harvey S. Mozolak

imperfectly drawn
finger painting of God
in the wet of heaven’s tears dried
and framed by limb-lines of wood

memento homo, quia pulvis est

Harvey S. Mozolak

the downward thumb thrust
of dust and slash of ash
over the outward wall of thought
and will where words are formed
and feelings weighed
a marring mark above the senses
two eyes of sight and ears that hear
nostrils by ferment
and tongue that tastes
the bitter bread and sharp wine
of a body thrust and death slashed

why do angels sit?

Harvey S. Mozolak

if you stare to the side carefully
best if you are a passenger
not the driver
and study the leafless woods
between the few left lonely pine
there even in daylight
one in the creek mostly hidden
by the curving of the road
and its metal barrier ribbon
is drinking alertly lifting
her head from time to time
and several up the hillside
in step fashion
perhaps a buck well up the ridge
closer to the housing development
but beyond where they mow
and toss the football
a house is there
with on one inside wall
a trophy head with horns
on another
a print of a Thayer angel
watch for the movement
of what could be brown trunks
and branches to betray them
they live among us like the angels
prayed for in the evening
over our children’s beds
wings in place of antlers
moving silently through our yards and streets
there even in daylight
but not a host hunted this season
in the after Christmas cold

one breath away from death

Harvey S. Mozolak

the way the wing feathers tip
determine if the ground squirrel
will live to fluff its fur
beside its burrow
unless the wind’s gust has a say 

poet-horse

Harvey S. Mozolak

words with wings that mount
to beyond above
and plow the hidden
trampled caved and creviced
Pegasus
swift of foot fleet of feather
finless yet prancing
in spring pools the hardness
of cold earth 
with lines of scent and color

in awe of ten

Harvey S. Mozolak

none with antlers
yet some quite large
eight deer eating
around two houses
three in front of each
and two on the sides
when I stop to look
at the size of this herd
they stop eating
whatever it is that is eaten
and all as one watch me
in the car
two in the front
I the driver
and my wife in the passenger seat
she sipping her coffee
and I chewing an orange-flavored mint
the west side window open
as are their sixteen wide eyes
brown spheres less in awe
of 36 mph Bluetooth heated front seats
four-wheel drive side deploying bags
more in fear awaiting direction
for all to drive

snow after sunset

Harvey S. Mozolak

it snowed last night
(the “it” less personable than divine
and even less able and plural than clouds)
but across the paper white
making of the night’s bed
while we were roofed and sleeping
it topped and smoothed all that could be seen
helped by the moon hung with a wide yawn
though not completely necessary
it seems
(again there is an “it” awake and working)
that a small creature
not the usual deer whose arc
of prints are out beyond the porch beam
walked to our door and returned again
to the white beyond indoor distinctions
asking in?
inquiring of our warmth and safety?
looking for some dropped chewable thing?
or searching for the “it”
that came even more quietly
but covering darkness with a lightness
that reveals most all the hidden
except for what
it is