by Paul Halley | April 28, 2026 | Poetry & Prose
I.
White water dances with rock life.
Spider-sized stones sit
at the bottom of the stream,
little pebbles setting the foundation
for the movement of the white water.
Signs are set on the trees of the trail,
the trail laying separate from the rapids.
Signs on the trees of the trail state:
entering the water is as deadly as a
wintertime flower garden.
Signs are set on the trees of the trail, but
my curious foot wants to lay a print
on the fragile ice.
So I dance with white water.
The movement of the whiteness –
I had never seen so much turbulence –
continues me down, down stream.
There is strength about this water,
about this trail; a natural fortitude
that extends through to me.
I flail and try not to choke
on the stream.
I am frozen.
II.
White water dances with rock life,
and stunningly enough, the white water
slows down her movement
when she sees me. She is
slowing down.
Slowing
down.
I dance with and cling onto larger geology,
larger than a pebble, larger than me,
pulling my body toward the
snow-bedded, white ground,
removing myself from the white water.
There is strength about this water,/
about this trail, that brought my body
to an emergency department.
Hypothermia, they said.
But there is strength about this water,
about this trail, that connected my soul,
my pebble-sized being, to a larger plan,
a larger force.
My fellow travelers fit their
clothing upon my back
once I appeared,
and
I am alive.
I am winter survival.
Originally published in BLUELINE COLLEGE EDITION: A LITERARY MAGAZINE DEDICATED TO THE SPIRIT OF THE ADIRONDACKS (SUNY Potsdam) in 2014.
by Paul Halley | May 1, 2016 | Poetry & Prose
I think of living with you:
I think of mornings that smell of coffee breath, cigarette breath;
of a food-filled fridge that inspires hours of culinary creations;
of evenings that arouse nothing less than magic;
of cuddling, wrapped like a pretzel,
wondering how we can think the same dream.
I imagine waking with you:
I imagine sleeping past the horn of our alarm clock;
rushing for a morning fix, a morning kiss;
taking daily triumphs by the dozen
after writing our ambitions on the whiteboard
hanging on our bedroom wall.
I dream of having a house with you:
Snowfall shoe-puddle stains mark the floor because of the bitter winter.
Traces of fettuccine carbonara live in the sink from the night before.
Framed cellphone photographs sit on every open surface.
Independent folk rock sounds ascend to the second floor.
Dirty denim jeans curl up in the corners, lost in piles.
We will be lost when lost is necessary,
but we will attempt to create a love, a life,
from scratch, only to be found in a dwelling
that looks a lot like home.
I think of living with you,
I think of living for you.
Originally published in North Country Literary Magazine, SUNY Potsdam (2016)
by Paul Halley | May 1, 2014 | Poetry & Prose
He was not legally responsible to provide me with food, or access to education or shelter, because he and my mother never joined in union. Though, there was still a responsibility that he felt toward my family.
Provide me with food. And he did. I was his sous-chef. He showed me how to chop garlic, chop onions, and chop scallions. He showed me which marinades to use, and he told me, “Paul, the sweet and the spicy complement each other.” He showed me how to steal leftover sushi from the all-you-can-eat Japanese restaurant just to avoid the penalty charge. “Wrap the Dragon Roll in napkins and put it at the bottom of your mother’s purse.”
Provide me with education. And he did. He was my guide. He pushed his way with purpose through the frantic parents of Suffern High School’s meet-the-teacher-night. He asked me, “What have you learned in Earth Science?” “Well,” I say, “Something about stars, that the sun is the closest one.” “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll make you sound smarter than you think you are.” A personable man, he cut a deal with the strictest science teacher in the building: an 80 on the Regents Exam would earn me a passing course grade. So, he waited until dawn. He waited until I would not want to go to school, like every morning. He could hear my mother, the way my neighbor heard her every morning. “I’m not driving you to school if you miss the bus!” And I did. But he was there, waiting in his 2001 Honda Accord. And he flew across the rising sun, watching his son smiling back at him.
Provide me with shelter. And he did. The night after he died, he woke me up, my cheeks red with tears. I suppose the only love I’ve ever known was watching his fingers curl over my wrist. “He is there,” I said. And I don’t want to end this poem, the way his figure of fatherhood vanished when I couldn’t direct my eyes at his ghost any longer. “He is gone,” I said. But I don’t want to end this poem. I don’t want to end this poem.
I am afraid to love, afraid to lose, once again, someone who loves this world so much more than they love themselves. I was in 8th grade when he wrote down four letters: FEAR – F* Everything and Run – it’s the opposite of faith.
He, for the first time, is a father figure. He is the smell of chopped garlic, onions, and scallions. He is what nourishes me. He is the sun, the closest star to my bedroom. He is what gets me out of my bedroom.
And there is no poem, no word that can capture a person. No poem I write will let me speak to him, though I have so much to say.
But you can go now. It’s okay. Don’t fear. Have faith. Your life has ended, but your story has not. I am ending this poem and setting you free.
Originally Published in North Country Literary Magazine, SUNY Potsdam (2014)
