Posts for June 14, 2020 (page 4)

This patch of land is but eleven acres.
Six acres were woods until I let another
three go wild, so now nine acres
stand to serve an island of ecology.
Between here and several other swabs
of trees in eastern Fayette county,
turkey roam, and also deer,
coyote, bobcat, possum, skunk, fox,
rabbit, otter, tree frogs, hawk, owl,
finch, and wren, ground hog,
tree squirrel, Indiana big eared bat,
one million fire flies, raccoon,
turkey vulture, shrew, field mouse,
feral cats, snakes, box turtles,
crawdads, slugs, stink bugs,
mosquitoes, black widows,
dragonfly, monarch butterfly,
honey bees,tobacco hornworms,
termites, woolly worms, woolly
adelgids, emerald ash borers,
southern pine beetles, red headed
wood peckers, stray dogs,
even an occasional
hitch hiker sleeping off the heat
of the US 60 asphalt.
A week after I bought the land, which
is to say a bank allowed my signature
to sign my life away, to transfer to me
what had been “rightfully” stolen
for centuries, city engineers
gathered to discuss the woods on this
property.  The only reason woods
remained was because of the flood
plain in which they occupied.
Surveyors came to measure
for a planned earthen dam,
that would retain water from
the neighborhood adjacent,
and thereby raze the woods
I bought to serve.
They made substantial offers,
were offended when refused,
accusing me of selfishness,
and silly pride.
No poem I write,
or song I sing, or fine wooden
thing I may craft, or house that I
might build for the most
prominent of clientele,
no action I have made or will make,
is as important in the span of time,
as being on this patch of land
soon enough to throw a wrench
into the jaws of the plastic 
sprawl lurching out across
our landscape, one set of
copy pasted blueprints
then another.

you told me

a man only drinks

whiskey and beer

but you drank

the blood straight

out of my body

what does that

make you?

The palace gardens are slowly growing back, finding their path to the warm sky through gray ash and blackened branches. This is the way the earth turns, renewing itself in the face of our indifference to what already is. With the passing of rain and snow, the palace sinks further into itself, the muraled walls and gilded arches return to constituent matter. This, too, is the cycle of the earth and our creations, to destroy beauty given us by others, like some alpha bear or lion, bound to eliminate the offspring of another.

Converting carbohydrates into
alcohol,
acids,
yeasts,
bacteria.
It’s truly no surprise to you
that you’ve found your wife
absorbed in
kitchen witchery
of the highest order,
filling our kitchen with
a collection of scavenged vessels
harboring hoards of enzymes behind
soda-lime glass.
A symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeasts
where i’ve become
my truest form,
the old crone we’ve always known me to be.

Two score years ago
my mother birthed forth
into our family
a new sister
conceived sometime in September
prior
as I was dedicated 
to prayer for a sister
as a five-year-old

I ponder the toilsome efforts
heaved by my mother and
her and my sister’s near death
experience during the miraculous
ordeal–a test of endurance
perseverance
resulting in an astonishing thing–
my sister, of course, and
that other thing for which I prayed–
to not be alone
to be loved
to belong

On my sister’s fortieth birthday
Flag Day
I am humbled
by marvelous works
achieved through prayer
and great travail 
speeches and deeds
kept promises
and forward motion

I still pray

so that

everyone
does not feel alone
but rather
loved
and a real
sense of belonging

milky chai on the porch
     a morning the Germans
          would praise as heiter
               (which also means cheerful)

kingbirds
     towhees
          goldfinches

bluebirds
     phoebes
          cardinals

paint a rainbow with their calls
     flash a lavish fanfare of colors
          sweeten my chai with their cheer

out there somewhere
is my song with enough
feel good devastation
that I can see the colors
of vibrant neon and black
with the deep blues

the song where I stop
believing that there are 
two people living inside
one always running
and the other cleaning up
the broken names and 
promise

that melody so distinct
that I can feel it
in every single drink
of whiskey 

and the voice of a stranger
that I’ll never meet 
but already love
whispering 
I am here
I am here
even when the light dies
and the neon colors
becomes afterglow
in the retina 
I am here
and I am you

I ate dried mango
and sat beneath a red maple tree.

The shade was inadequate,
but the sweetness in my mouth
was enough for me.

I can’t write
It’s gone from me
Nope, nothin’ there
Keep trying to see
If nothings there 
How can “I” be
Have “I” become
A non-entity?
And if that’s so
I’m nondescript
That’s not flattering
Don’t wanna be that
Maybe I should 
Write this thing down
Give myself credit
A jewel in my crown
Then I can say
“Yes, I wrote one today.”

Voices cracking—mind racing
blank.
Old plants wilting 
in the living room.
Air
weighted down,
collapsing my lungs,
infecting my
whole body.

You were stolen 
out of the night,
not even 
a year
after our last loss.

Moving 
limply around
your home,
stumbling upon
the memories of my 
childhood—

today will always
be the day 
I lost my grandfather.