JOHN DORROH - POEMS

​Whether John Dorroh taught any secondary science is still being discussed. He did manage, however, to show up at 6:45 every morning with at least three lesson plans and a thermos of robust Colombian. His poetry has appeared in about 80-85 journals, including Dime Show Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Os Pressan, Feral, Selcouth Station, and Red Dirt Forum/Press. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.

​Meditation for the Mountain in My Rearview Mirror

Is there something sticky on mountaintops,
something that coats the trees perhaps,
a Velcro-like substance that pulls clouds
ever so close to jagged surfaces, the teeth
and jaws of mountains collaborating
to redirect nature’s very breath? I have seen
the clouds scaling up the sides of shale
and limestone facings, intermingling
with every cell, every floral tissue in their
paths, only to be split and rerouted, sent
to other counties and countries
with supernatural compliance. What
do mountains know about water droplets,
and why should they care which way they
go? After all, a mountain is a mountain,
exfoliating shards and flecks over the course
of a million years. Is a mountain jealous
of a cloud’s fluidity, its ghostlike
existence, the way in which is appears
out of thin air, in fallowed fields, on
river banks and city suburbs? Is a mountain
unable to compromise, toss in the towel to a bit
of fog? I wonder if mountains are too proud
for their own good, too petty to showered
with praises from those who sit ten miles away,
in cars, waiting for the thick gray mist to lift
so they can get home and take a nice warm bath.
​

The Color of Thunder

I sat on the deck reading Mary Oliver’s “Dog Songs” for the third time, waiting for the approaching storm to drop the temperature. After mowing the grass for the second time in less than a week, late spring was slowly morphing into another hot, humid summer of endless garden and yard work. I wanted out. Where are the fireflies? I wondered. They’re late. The thunder rolled in the northwest preceded by magnificent flashes of purple-salmon light that looked like an artist’s palette. The giant oak on the south side of the deck responded with its usual threats – the widow-maker that had been hanging in the same spot for over a year, and other branches of questionable integrity, some of them dipping so low that I could reach out and pull them onto the deck. My beautiful girl, Izzie, must have sensed that danger loomed as she put her right paw on the sliding glass door. “Okay, girl. You go inside and leave me out here to tend to the weather myself. See you in a bit.” (I like storms. I like the thought of being in danger, feeling vulnerable and open to nature’s whims. I don’t like straight-line winds or tornadoes, or lightning bolts that burn down houses like so much kindling. But that’s part of it.) contradictions My mother was terrified of storms. She made us unplug all appliances and sit in the hallway and pray. “Unless you’re praying to the Lord for protection, don’t talk,” she said. “Be respectful!” The rain drops were heavy, as if they’d been traveling for a long time. I realize that there’s a lot more to it – the physics of raindrops – and I’ve read the literature. The hail started falling from a different direction than the rain and before it was over, the deck was almost covered with a substantial coating of ice. It reminded me of how people moving in different directions can cause turbulence.
Izzie was pacing in the kitchen. “Let’s go down to the basement, Izzie. Hurry! We may be having a tornado.” She followed me down the 10 steps into the basement where we sat on the floor, her head in my lap, my left arm resting on her back. I swear I heard her ask me to pray. So I did. Just for Izzie. I said a short prayer, asking for a hedge of protection around the house and for friends in the path of the storm. It got quiet and still but I knew that it wasn’t over. It never is. The next morning the sun lifted itself up over the line of hardwoods that line the back of the property. There were branches everywhere. Big ones as large as a man’s torso, small ones the size of a garter snake and every size in between. The mail box lay crushed in the middle of the road. I spotted more than a dozen dents on the hood and roof of my Civic. (“Great,” I said to myself. “Wonder how much that will cost?”) maybe doesn't belong because he’s thinking about more than matters of money) My cell phone exploded in my pocket. It was my ex. “I’ve had an accident. Can you come pick me up? Please.”I fed Izzie her breakfast and left her in the dog run. “Be good, girl. Don’t know when I’ll be home. “But it won’t be long. I promise.”

This Year We’ve Opted to Buy Local Honey

​When you read the words “smoked tangerine,”
my toes curl up into the tips of my tennis
shoes, and I think about that day, camped out
for a couple of hours at a slick, marble-topped
bar where the keeper mixes me a slightly dirty
martini that made me see double. When you say
72 bear sightings, I make an unintentional compare-
and-contrast on the similarities and differences between
beach and mountain.


I am eating local honey, boosting my compromised
immune system to new heights; that I could hope
for more is ludicrous, considering how asthma has
reshaped my alveoli to favor shriveled grapes;
to say that the magical beach bars are better elixirs
might be jumping the gun.


You run ahead of me on the trail that slopes like a ski
jump down to the river, the place where bears have
eaten their last snack of blackberries and some other
unidentified plants. This is where Mama takes her
cubs to learn to fish and how to scrub their bristly backs
on innocent trees that have no say as to who scratches off
their delicate bark.


We rubdown your body with tanning oil as I wind
the key at the bottom of your strong spine. I point
you to a space between two families. “You will be
safer there,” I say as I head for the cold air of the Civic’s
interior. I shoot pictures of clouds on top of the blue
bridge over the bay and make a list of restaurants that serve
crab and shrimp for Happy Hour. The palm trees are sad today,
sort of misplaced and not feeling as elegant as the ones
I see in movies. It’s okay because at least the they
are still alive.