Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 250+ publications in 28 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com
Country Barn
Cockcrow’s rays against red-painted siding
add a fiery tincture, stark and arresting,
to an otherwise monotone surround
of swidden and forests pruned and pollarded,
a quiet haven redolent of timber and hay
where each thread of sound
is distinctly discerned and townspeople
come to rusticate or else when lost.
At prandial hours, grazing livestock mosey
along through sliding doors, past tractors
in various states of disrepair, keen on ensilage
to supplement their diets;
they casually disregard the ranch hand,
immersed in the sudorific ardor of labor,
forging a brand in the refiner’s fire.
All the stalls and chutes are in adequate fettle,
although silos display the toll of the elements.
Pewter wind chimes, decorative and melodic,
taunt the aged weather vane with their newness
even as the windpump bemoans its missing blades.
Local folk, salt of the earth, humble as a pebble,
heave bales and inhale the breeze,
glad to disburden their backs
every so often and munch by the porch
smoked jerky, guessing at the spice rub,
an unorchestrated symphony of neighing,
lowing, bleating, crowing, and clucking
constant in the background, reverberating off
lofty rafters where spiders oversee proceedings.
Airport Lounge
Sometimes reaching the designated gate
is a micro feat that feels macro, a private triumph
for those surpassing the hectic havoc
of an international terminal at midday,
where people vie, jostle, queue,
sardines rushing to be canned in metal birds.
This assembly of assorted cross-purposes
is but a symphony of haste and angst,
a community of wanderers, random and non-replicable,
its members anxious for destinations
while reluctantly resigned to journeys,
the real price we must pay.
Many consider lounge a misnomer,
for this is a hall of tension and dread;
not all the duty-free liquor, smartphones, or flat screen TVs
looping muted newscasts can distract the mind
from its uneasiness, from the sense of being
corralled and harried, demoted to sheeple.
In such a way station, where there are alternately
way too many seats or none available whatsoever,
the wise befriend strangers so that time flies
faster even than the 747 now preboarding
passengers with small children or special needs,
its jets set to entirely alter the atmosphere.