Joe Hesch is a writer and poet friend of mine who lives near Albany, New York. Joe's poems and stories are often inspired by his 350 year old hometown, and his work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Wanderings Magazine, With Painted Words, Foliate Oak, Falling Star Magazine and other publications. He posts poems and stories-in-progress on his blog, http://athingforwordsjahesch.wordpres...  He is a member of the staff at dVerse Poets Pub website and community and was named one of Writers Digest Editor Robert Lee Brewer's "2011 Best Tweeps for Writers to Follow."

I'm thrilled to help celebrate this particular day with Joe, as he has been blogging for one year now. And in that 365 days, I've read some amazing works he has posted.

I sincerely hope you enjoy Joe's work as much as I do; it's a privilege to share this talented individual's work with all of you.  In addition to being a wonderful wordsmith, Joe is also a fantastic Twitteratti. Follow him and gain a great friend. His Twitter handle is @JAHesch.

My Island

The autumn rain lifted overnight,
and in the morning our road

seemed a seascape as I looked East,

a long black beach curving ahead of me.

The puddles were sun-mirrored tidal pools

surrounded by the final tossing

of russet shells from the oaks.

Above, a grand artist,

with wind-blown flourish,

had dry-brushed strokes of gray

over the white impastos He scattered

across a canvas of palest blue infinity.

And I, the sleepy suburban Crusoe,

breathed the sweet breeze of morning.

Rivertown Rapture

With January's ice-scrim mist,
this riverside neighborhood
turns back to photo proof
black, white and gauzy gray.

Holiday colors have faded
like mid-September memories.
Tinder-dry evergreens,
erstwhile harlequin-lit window beacons
for passing ice-breakers,

now lay prostrate on streetside,

snow-dusted Christmas gravestones,
waiting for the herald crash
of the trash collecting Rapture.
And the perennial trees

standing sentinel nearby
at snow-footed attention,
look like lean black guardsmen,
their uniforms on backorder
until a too faraway Spring.







Backstage At The Firmament








Come the Fall, the sky grows wider,

blacker, starrier as each night

the trees undress and become skinnier,

like movie starlets

trying to make a name for themselves

above some blockbuster's title.

I become smaller now, a bit less significant

against the ever more vast darkness.

If that net of stars should drop

upon the now-drowsy Earth,

I bet I could slip through it and

peek backstage at The Firmament,

catching angels and gods in dishabille,

like the maples and starlets,

their wings and auras hanging from hooks

fashioned from mortal prayers

for another good harvest

or more nights like this.