Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/I

Supple pink lips stretch boldly
towards a breathless,
iron-streaked sky to capture slender morsels
of air.

What haunting songs will make
their indelible marks
on this child’s untouched life?  Soon, time
shall speak.

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In July, I wrote a short poem entitled Household Songs.  A few weeks later I wrote another poem in the same format and ended up naming it Household Songs: II because at the time, I couldn’t think of a better name for it.  I have now decided to expand those pieces into a longer narrative poem which will consist of thirty short sections.  Household Songs is about the life of Joseph Clarence Strauss, who was born at his father’s homestead in 1867 in Lehigh County, Pennsylvania.
There are two elements of this poem that are not fiction.  The homestead in question is modeled after an abandoned two-story home–built in 1860–that is roughly a ten minute drive from my childhood home.  In 1865, a Thomas Strauss did in fact purchase that house as well as a grist mill that was on the property, however Joseph Clarence Strauss is merely a figment of my imagination.  That house has always fascinated me, even to this day. I have often wondered what its walls would say if they could talk and so for me, the Strauss home seemed like fitting subject material from which I could construct a longer poem.
The respective sections of Household Songs depict a moment from each year of Joseph’s life, in chronological order.  I intend to post one section every week
.

Far From the Blazing Stars

Beneath a buzzing vault of viper skins,
I slither through the belly of a lake,
where my lean lower limbs morph into fins.
By Suijin’s deep grace, I swiftly make
my way past ruthless currents and begin
to transform into an enchanted snake.
It seems my life on land is over now.
I never shall return – to that I vow.

———————-

Suijin is the Shinto god of water in Japan.  This was written in Ottava rima form.

The Road to Home

Jammed securely into this chamber–three
by five–of numberless numbers, dripping
like Inga in August, my flushed ears listen
to the roar of reticence that permeates
our hive of heavy bodies.

Eyes oscillate between clocks and computers
as fingers flutter and shoulders shake beside
document drenched desks.

At five o’clock, smiles spread thinly over our
flagging faces, even though, for us, the road
to home
leads nowhere.