FERRIS WHEEL

From my window in Brisbane I can see
a giant Ferris wheel turning so slowly it seems
as if time is arrested. Opera glasses can’t detect 
any passengers. Still the wheel runs, circle after circle.
I am puzzled but strangely pleased. Too much
sense is tiring. My father, during his last days,
couldn’t stop crying. Not that he was sad, he told
me through his tears, just a faucet he couldn’t
turn off. The inexplicable is closer to truth. Who ever
heard of a god giving way to humans? Wotan did,
and here we are, each with our own sadness and joy,
which we can’t explain and must live with, infinitesimal 
creatures whose arc is the universe. I woke up happy
today and don’t know why. It will continue until it doesn’t.



CORONATION

No pomp and circumstance this day; no crowds
or carriages; the church a kirk with sky 
the dome; a flower-flecked meadow, the pews; 
the walls, a stand of pines. You’re alone when a slant
of sun through the trees illuminates you through
and through. A wave of heat rises from feet
to head. What you believed before, the doubts 
that kept you small, the faults you held too high, 
now burn away. This day you wear the crown. 
The trees, the leaves, a squirrel up high, soaring
hawks, the blue wild irises, the blinding golden
poppies, they receive you, regent of self; no longer
a commoner of slavish habits and unbridled 
thoughts. You ride the steed. Your destiny unbound.

About the Author:

Robert Rothman lives in Northern California, near extensive trails and open space, with the Pacific Ocean over the hill. His work has appeared in Atlanta Review, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Tampa Review, Willow Review, and over one hundred other literary journals in the United States, England, Ireland, Canada, Wales, and Australia. Please see his website (www.robertrothmanpoet.com) for more information about him and his work.

*Feature image by Albina White on Unsplash