Poems by Krikor N. Der Hohannesian

ARANEUS DIADEMATUS

by Krikor N. Der Hohannesian

From Canary Fall 2021

Krikor lives next to the Mystic Lakes section of the Charles River watershed which empties into Boston Harbor - now relatively cleansed of pollutants.

As if by nature’s sorcery,
back-lighted by an orange harvest moon,
the alchemy of spinnerets -
protein into silk, gossamer
suspended between eave and gutter
at the whim of a puff of wind
or the weight of raindrops,
a sparrow’s hunger.

Come morning, droplets of dew,
hung on night’s mist, diadem
the filaments lustered by low
shafts of sunrise, elegance
to rob the breath. Each night

a prayer for its survival. Like
matins and vespers added
to a diurnal ritual, a treasure
of communion, of serenity,
nothing asked in return. Seven

days it defied wind, rain
and predator, a damselfly
or two sustenance enough.
Then, whisked away
on stealthy wings
of the first light frost.

© Krikor N. Der Hohannesian

Quod Erat Demonstrandum

by Krikor N. Der Hohannesian

From Canary Summer 2018

By noontime you could hear the heat
sizzle like a pancake on a hot griddle,
the buzz of the cicadas, the whirr
of air conditioners up and down the street.
And you could smell it, too,
the stench of New Jersey chemicals
on the southwest breeze
come all the way to Boston.

Three o’clock and the wind flip-flops,
east off the Atlantic, the temperature
drops 20 degrees in a half hour –
to meteorologists, air inversion,
to us, relief from the steam of August.

Upside down, I tell you…

It’s been this way since March’s heat wave.
The hydrangeas exploded in May
and Rose of Sharon in June, their bloom
dropping two months early.
The tomatoes droop from blight,
blossom ends rotted. They say
it’s much worse in Iowa and Nebraska,
a hundred-year drought. Corn stalks
balk at pollination, soy beans shrivel
in desiccated fields.

On the outer Cape off Ballston Beach
a great white bites a man’s leg,
the first such attack in decades.
Either he ventured out too far or
the shark too close to shore, depending
on whether you believe the man or the shark.

This much I know – the great white
likes harems of seals and temperate waters,
the Gulfstream is shifting course.

The deniers bluster “no” to climate change,
“no definitive proof” they huff. But
this I also know – as a boy I could forecast weather
three day’s out based on the wind’s direction and speed
and whether the clouds were cirrus, stratus, or cumulus,
or if there was dew or killer frost on the ground at sunrise.

You only need open the window,
feel the breeze, look at the blue
of the sky, the white of the clouds
or slate gray of overcast and watch
the ocean’s wave action
to understand what’s coming.

Wambaw Creek

by Krikor N. Der Hohannesian

From Canary Fall 2010

draped over the knobby knee
of a majestic cypress,
a cotton-mouth dozes
beneath a blanket
of April sunshine

astride the far bank a young doe
hesitates, eyeing us warily, spindly
legs on tremulous alert, nostrils flared,
before bounding off apace
through the swamp grove

we, the intruders,
paddle ahead quietly
feathering oars with great care
to mask the ripples
of our trespass