Poetry by John Brantingham

              ​Nicolas Henderson CC



The Churn

We live in a loft in the back 
of the old post office in Ontario,
built in 1926.
At night, my dead whisper to me 
that this is not an ancient place. 
It is not even old. 
They whisper that no place on Earth is. 
They tell me the ground 
is churning, slower than water, 
but replacing itself still. 

​



Spring

The row of offices 
down the road 
that have been abandoned 
since March 
must have a pipe burst, 
so we call it in 
and wait three days 
before anyone turns off 
the water coming 
through the wall 
like a spring or a faucet. 
In these days, 
the wild neighborhood cats 
are drawn here. 
They drink carefully 
while watching 
for cars and dogs and people. 
When they see me, they bolt. 
Birds have begun to congregate on 
the wires above. 
I think of the coyotes. 
How they must congregate at night.





​​Red Bird

The building down the road 
standing empty since we moved here 

used to be owned by the Raven Brothers 
or at least that’s what the sign 

painted directly on its wall says. 
Whatever music that might be found 

in car repair is gone. 
In the afternoon, a neighborhood kid 

throws a racquetball hard 
just below its fading red bird 

again and again, catching it 
before it touches the ground. 

He wipes the sweat from his eyes 
and concentrates on improving his throw.




John Brantingham was the first poet laureate of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park. His work has been featured in hundreds of magazines and in Writer’s Almanac and The Best Small Fictions 2016. He has eleven books of poetry and fiction including his latest fiction collection Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press). He teaches at Mt. San Antonio College.