2 Poems by Ken Wuetcher

No Singing

The sun blazed.
The Ohio River
Motionless.
I grabbed my BB gun
headed for the creek
to hunt dragonflies.
Looked up into the blue sky,
I saw a Robin
perched on a telephone wire.
Still,
reddish-orange breast
thrust out.
Quiet,
no singing.
My chest pounded like I
had sprinted through
the cow fields.
My trigger finger itched.
I recalled my friends
bragging about shooting birds.
They seemed very proud
of themselves.
I instantly wanted to
gloat along with them,
“Yeah, I shot a bird.”
I raised the rifle slowly,
aimed at the center
of his colorful breast,
pulled the trigger.
The Robin fell
like an eagle diving to its prey.
Instantly,
swiftly,
breathtaking.
He disappeared in the
pasture.
An eerie silence;
a chill ran up my spine.
What had I done?


Catfish

As a kid
I caught catfish off
the muddy bottom
of the Ohio River.
They fought aggressively:
Flopped
Quivered
Large and weighty,
gray with darker markings
a little bit of blue or brown.
Iridescent scales
especially when the
sunlight hit them just right.
Long whiskers on catfish,
usually, black
soft and fleshy
no sting
like some people thought.
Mysterious looking.
Many had gold or orange eyes
Haunting
Whenever I caught
One
I released it.
Yanked the hook out
with a pair of pliers.
Bloody
gills opened and closed slowly
eyes turned glassy.
Never thought of eating one -
some people did.


Bionote

Ken Wuetcher lives in Louisville, KY. He holds a MA in English Literature from DePaul University in Chicago and works as a Librarian and Oil Painting Teacher. His writing has been published in the Avalon Literary Review, Chewers Magazine, Chicago Quarterly Review, Ginosko Literary Journal, The Main Street Rag, North Dakota Quarterly, Pulsar Poetry, The Sandy River Review, Straylight Literary Magazine and WestWard Quarterly.