Krikor N. Der Hohannesian


Out of thin air, back lighted
by the 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
or a sparrow’s hunger.

In the morning, droplets of dew
hung by the night mist diademed
the filaments, lustered by low
shafts of sunrise, elegance
to rob the breath. Each night

I prayed 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,
and just as it had appeared
out of thin air, of a sudden
it was gone - whisked
on the stealthy wings
of the first light frost.



They say high wind,
heavy rain tonight.
Warnings of street flooding,
rivers breaking banks. Last
time the maple out back
bowed, gave up a major limb
for the chainsaw to feast on.

    breathe in,
breathe out…

I lie on a lonely bed,
watch a solitary finch
outside the window
flap paper-thin wings
against the wind –
the surest of signs.

   breathe in
breathe out…

I ponder suffering,  
the suffering backwashed
into the river’s flow,
the sadness of a cloud
ready to weep, the pain
of the maple as the branch
was torn asunder.

  breathe in
breathe out…

I offer a single tear,
a slow trickle down
one cheek – my tithe
to the coming storm. 


Krikor Der Hohannesian lives in Medford, MA. His poems have appeared in many literary journals including The Evansville Review, The South Carolina Review, Atlanta Review, Louisiana Literature, Connecticut Review and Hawai’i Pacific Review. He is the author of two chapbooks,“Ghosts and Whispers” (Finishing Line Press, 2010) and “Refuge in the Shadows” (Cervena Barva Press, 2013).  “Ghosts and Whispers” was a finalist for the Mass Book awards poetry category in 2011. Her can be reached at