Japanese knotweed
as a boy
I’d hide under the canopy
from the burning hot sun
and those heavy things
that a boy can’t put
into words
watch the cars glide down
the gravel road
and pretend
they were people
that I loved
coming to take me away
as a boy
I’d hide under the canopy
from the burning hot sun
and those heavy things
that a boy can’t put
into words
watch the cars glide down
the gravel road
and pretend
they were people
that I loved
coming to take me away
I walk through that old kitchen in my mind
Everyone shucked corn on the back porch,
then fed husks to the patient cows.
We all drank from the same dipper-
cold, sweet and silty from the spring house,
even though the sink had running water.
The squeaky screen door would bang the frame.
I was not bothered by the outhouse
(during the daytime anyway) –
light slivers between the milky boards
showed lime dust on my bare feet
and spiders hiding in the corners.
Homemade rag balls covered in corduroy
had withstood at least 60 years of children.
Wickets and mallets under the house
were an incomplete game we didn’t know.
Crawdaddys in the creek and laid rock walls
were preferred over old books and tools.
A long table squeezed in under the stairs
accommodated shifts of meals and cards.
The linoleum was worn through in spots,
and window weights creaked on frayed sash cords.
The iron cook stove held stately court,
but the new one was a jaunty yellow.
The adults kept to their careful orbit,
giving us the space to be apart.
The dinner bell heard across the fields
called us in from our rock palaces
to come and eat, or pick blackberries,
or to point out moths the size of saucers.
Maybe we are all just probes
collecting data
for the supreme being who is all knowing
because he/she/it
can see through our eyes
feel our joy and pain.
Maybe the hell we fear
is the hell we’ve created
lacking compassion and empathy
leading to sorrow.
Maybe I am still on the hook
for the bargains I made
that I conveniently forgot.
Maybe the lies I’ve told
and now believe
will count against me in the end.
Maybe the best part about me
are the people that love me in spite
of myself.
Maybe
one day
I can collect all the right data
and understand.
Mountain Pose
My feet are firmly planted,
Evenly set.
Anjali mudra at your heart
Focus my intention,
On prayer,
And inner calm.
Standing forward bend
Energy flows to the earth,
Fingers touch the ground.
Plank
Arms straight,
Strength
My body didn’t
Have before.
Cobra
Lower through
Calves,
Thighs,
Stomach,
Chest.
Then face up,
Towards the sun.
Downward Facing Dog
Deep bow,
In the presence of
Such splendor.
Mountain Pose
Rise up tall,
Face to the sun.
Hands in Prayer Position
Thank you.
Namaste.
God is a washerwoman. Petja Heinrich
The walkway of our Broadway house
was S-shaped and on Saturday
I had to trim the grass along its border
determined to show I could handle
the snippers i used both hands
and pretended to be a barber
someone said are you pat lally’s son
The way i saw the woman’s image
stopped at the sidewalk
red hat red dress red shoes
and some secret i could not know
changed the sun
from that day on
a puppy who licks
the inside of your
lip because you
got too close to that
much enthusiasm
Lost soldier without it’s commanding officer
I have a body
like a Greek statue:
perfectly chiseled
into plumpness;
way older
than it looks;
the type of beauty
some stare at
and others pass by.
