Posts for June 29, 2020 (page 7)

Hide N’ Seek  

I go outside and start to play, gently palm
leaves of green away, to seek, find and tag
you’re it and put them in my basket.  

My fingers gently feel for bean, long and lean
to eat for dinner tonight, but everything feels the same
until I touch a worm on the plant’s central frame.  

I bend over and train my eyes to search for the ones which hide
in between the matching yellow-green limbs, they cling with tenacity,
determined not to be found, washed, and pinched.  

The ones that didn’t win the game of hide n’ seek
are bound into a pot of steam, cooked, buttered,
to become the theme of our garden’s gift cuisine.

Outside my window
a confusion of fireflies
chips away the night,
yellow gloam flecked
over unruly grass.
A wolf spider curls
around his solitary death,
lacework of legs
turning brittle on the sill.
A mosquito needles
my sweatslick skin for
the blood meal, enough
to hatch a brood more.
I do not feel it. I sit alone
inside the lightless house.

I didn’t know what I was looking for in life,
That is until I met you,
You were everything I didn’t know I wanted,
You were everything I needed,
We both felt a connection within a few moments,
We looked each other in the eyes,
We said I love you in unison,
Our souls glimpsed each other for only a few split seconds,
But the connection we felt was strong,
We may not be together anymore but you still hold a place in my heart,
For a connection of such intimacy is impossible to whelve away

This is America at Kroger. Grocery shopping, packed aisles, children crying, entire families dancing with boxes of corn flakes. Masks like a shell game on a city street, a crap shoot, a carnival ring toss, who knows, don’t stomp my snake it’ll bite back, don’t hide my mouth from god’s lips. Stars and bars on arms and cars, pride in an ass whooping, a history of blood on hands and states on fire. Brass horses over black lives, they whisper to one another in the international foods aisle. Lung damage for my cousins over light facial coverage. This is the America that shotguns Marlboros. This is the America of spoiled brats and Caligula. Forget the charities, forget the pride parades, forget the stormed beaches and dead fascists, forget the movies and the rock and roll, forget the hypocritical parchment of freedom signed by slave owners, forget the flags on the Moon. This is America addicted to atomic bombs. This is America shooting fireworks up its own ass. This is America fighting itself over day-old bread.

We are eager to break out.

Walking the neighborhood–
I in my cloud of white hair,
you in your spiky halo,
our son brandishing a beard–
we form a duckling parade
and show our manners
by crossing the street
to avoid oncoming walkers.

We compliment a stranger’s poodle
and offer a good morning 
to a sullen neighbor,
wave word wordlessly to the cyclist,
the Amazon girl, the Fed Ex guy,
the letter carrier, in fact, to everybody,
including a team of roller skaters.

A cul-de-sac congested with kids
redirects our route.
We slow down at blind corners,
the only decision 
whether to loop
one way
or the other,

big cats pacing.

Beauregard weighs nearly two-ten
(the old St. Bernard from Nestle Inn).
he lays out front, in the grassy yard,
to protect his precious Hildegard.

Hildegard is an unusual name
(Beauregard, too, though they’re nearly the same).
Beauregard–the dog–is a very good friend,
Hildegard–his human–her love has no end.

Nestle Inn sits near Boffer’s Junk
(owned by a man too often drunk).
on the other side, St. Pillory’s Chapel—
a church for drunks, sinners, and rascals.

Mr. Boffer walks to church, faithfully, twice a week
(passing Beauregard, and sneaking a peek).
he waves “hello” if Hildegard is out,
and gives Beauregard a cheerful shout.

the man sometimes is awkward—he loses his feet,
yet he has own charm, and his bright smile is sweet.
Beauregard sees, in Hildegard’s eyes,
a love that is growing, tender and wise–

seeing past the junkman’s pain,
to the smile that brings a smile again.
it wasn’t long before “I do”.
Beauregard, now? Well, now, he guards two.

Even when her face disappears
Into the invisible hills
Her voice will drift down
From her ephemeral bed
And she will tickle your cochlear bone
Her vibration as real as her beauty
Without regret

When the slow burn of day
Lifts the veil from your visible world
She will come just in time
To walk down your lonely road
Her gait of slight satisfaction
Her silver earrings ajangle

We called it Little Brooklyn, a bubbling
gumbo of culture.  Michelle & Tariq tangled
daily & made up. Barbara in her flamingo
splashed lawn chair prayed while clutching
her pale pink bible. Youngsters paddled in the shabby
pool & coin machines clacked in the basement
laundry while handyman Joe, who guzzled
his daily paycheck, paced the parking
lot with Buster the long-haired
chihuahua. One day Joe put his ear
to my Honda four-cylinder & offered
a diagnosis. Usually, he’d try to sell me
a task, five bucks to haul a trunk
of groceries, $20 for a wash
& wax. I’d stretch out by the pool on a patio
lounger with poetry, something vintage,
Neruda or Rilke. I’d stop every 10 minutes
& look up as if I’d sighted a full crescent
rainbow. I’d take the scene inside
my core with its carousel of race,
nationality & language. I’d inhale deep
& slow & congratulate myself.

It’s been thundering all morning
creek water on the rise
Thor’s hammer at the anvil
thunder smashing down

The water threatens to rise
its quiet stream rising to a roar
the sky grumbles
the creek is full from the rain

The current has new strength
smashing together carried things
the creek is muddied
with the stir of new water

Smashing together paradox parts
Thor’s hammer is at the anvil
the little creek is waking up to rain
it’s been thundering all morning