Bob Kirkley

The Prayer Within a Prayer

Let us bow our heads and pray

                   this feels wrong

Gracious Father

                   great white heron

Thank you for this day

                   that sprang from the mangrove tree

The beauty of nature

                   crackling branches

The food upon our table

                   unfolded its wings

Use it Lord to strengthen our bodies

                   almost six feet end to end

So that we may better serve you

                   and flew silently and alone

We ask it in your name

                  low across the flats

Amen                  sunlight on its back               Amen

From the Wilderness of Lapland  

You message me at 9:52 p.m. Central European Time,

a solitary photo without a caption. Stars are snow

falling through the lights of the aurora borealis, green

tonight—their normal state—magical and ghostly. You

feel haunted. Powder in the branches of the Norwegian wood

enhances the illusion of descending snow.

I type “Merry Christmas,” but don’t send it. You and I

sat together too long in a room without chairs.

You’re not in the photograph, and I know that you’re alone—

your natural condition. Even now, I love your solitude,

and, of course, I hit send. But what does it matter?

Anyone can see that the slush-covered road lies empty—

nobody comes from either direction—and, by morning,

it will be frozen over hard.

Commencement Address

You don’t have to serve the Holy Trinity

of electricity, air conditioning, and refrigeration.

Find yourself a boat, instead,

that hasn’t a motor,

that hasn’t sails,

that hasn’t dock lines,

and drift with intent to an island remote.

Drop anchor there.

Though it hasn’t a chain,

though it hasn’t a rope,

you will secure it soundly and float.

Live on the cay by yourself

till you’re no longer lonely.

A stranger will arrive soon after

on a bark without a rudder.

They will know by then the stuff inside the stars.

That’s how they will find you.

Greet them at dusk at the waterline,

honest and detached.

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Bob Kirkley received an MA in creative writing from Florida State University. Since then, he has served for twenty-eight years as a high school English teacher in South Florida. His other pursuits include coffee roasting and paddleboarding. Dry-processed coffees from Ethiopia are his favorites because, while they are not flavored, some taste like blueberries. And he has paddled about 1,500 miles so far, mostly on his own in the Keys. For links to his published works, please visit bobkirkleypoetry.com.