The Sunday Poem: Zachary Kluckman... A Harvest of Thunder Throated Blossoms

"Why read poetry?"  Now that's a question worth asking...especially in a column like this.  The exquisite passion of Zachary Kluckman in today's poem not only offers an explanation, it is itself an example of the joy of reading great works.

Kluckman is one of the most active forces in Albuquerque's poetry scene.

A Harvest of Thunder Throated Blossoms

Finding the right words
hidden in a book of poems
is like holding your hand in a rain storm.

Thunder blossoms
kissing the ground with their hunger,
as the windows paint themselves

mascara wet, with the dust of summer
trickling down from cracked paint
and wooden frames,

thrilled with this excuse
to stay on the couch
while the television drowns,

to reach inside the clockwork
of our hearts and reset the gears
like children tearing apart day old Christmas toys,

attempting to build something new
from pieces of things
we once wanted so badly.

To wait in the bushes beside the hummingbird feeder,
anxious for a glimpse of rose colored breasts
beating the air in a game of breathless.

Making love to a stranger
in a telephone booth because we may never
get another chance to do this,

to live in this moment,
to be this careless with our affections,
to wrap our fingers in hair

that smells like travel,
like dirt roads in rainstorms
like the mud we swallowed as children

convinced our throats
were E-Z Bake oven and our eyes
could handle the lighting.

Like the careful agreement of one hand
to listen to the other one clapping
because we are reminded of the need

to take our hands dancing,
to hold our hearts up over our heads
like blown glass confections

and know that our breath has been sweetened
by the blood we have eaten, and
the flesh we have broken with our eyes,

taking this communion
on humbled tongues because
we may never have another chance

to do this,    just this.
To dance those words across our lips,
to make love to ourselves

by reading them out loud
between the comic books and road maps.
To ache ourselves into stupid, cross-eyed bliss.

Finding the right words
hiding in a book of poems
is an afternoon

spent gossiping with God in the Garden,
stealing his brightest flowers home
in your pockets.

Thunderheads in the balls of our feet
as we run. A day with nothing in it
for  us to run from.

--Zachary Kluckman

Poetry submissions are welcome.  Email

Views: 138

Comment by Margaret Randall on December 11, 2011 at 2:35pm

Living in the moment and knowing the blossoms in this poem are joys here in Siem Reap, Cambodia, where lotus blossoms have all sorts of uses. This is a terrific poem. Thanks, as always.

Comment by Dee Cohen on December 12, 2011 at 5:39am

Hi Zach, This is filled with vibrant images. Looks like you found the 'right words' in this poem. Thanks to you and the DitchRider too.for another Sunday lift. Dee

Comment by Gina M on December 13, 2011 at 4:05pm

I already shared that I love this poem, so happy it is published here for more to read. 

Comment by Merimee Moffitt on January 15, 2012 at 6:16pm

Z-man, just now catching up on my sunday poem reading.  The holidaze have hallowed themselves on into dust and delirium, and your work but intrigues and obfuscates me as usual--I really like the sex in the phone booth just because--thank you for that--people are still human after all, and I love ths tanza shape, the rain smells, the light, and especially the windowpane "wet, with the dust of summer."  Greggory Corso comes to mind.

Comment by Merimee Moffitt on January 15, 2012 at 6:17pm

ps nice Thor/God like pic--ha ha  Zachary the Great!!!


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