Posts for June 5, 2021 (page 7)

Trees pillow us on the raised
deck next door; our voices an
ostinato to the birds’
obligato—a linking
of elbows with all that breathes
or photosynthesizes
within our eye- or earshot.

patio strung with lights
wood fire pizzas and beer
last train rattles by

Wind. Heat. Water. Sun.
Inexorable change is
Discomfort and hope.

Apples from Georgia’s Tree
Ripen on the ground
Picked up
Placed in plain color of kitchen wall box
Wait for guide to gift pilgrims 
Bless us to munch
An imagined taste of her life
Viewed through screen and glass
Solid walls
Open courtyard
Where earth’s shadows flit in gray and tan
Stark images
Contrast Georgia’s view
As we savor our gifts

Black door
White clouds
Blue sky
Green apples

Five-year-olds on first and second, two outs,
batter steps up to the tee,
hits the ground with his bat
he’s so excited,
he might score some runs.
Shouted advice from parent and coach alike
echoes around his clunky helmet.
Keep your eye on the ball,
swing level, swing hard,
choke up, you got this.
Batter does a test swing, slow motion,
getting a sense of where the real swing should be,
his aluminum bat nudges the ball.
He does it a second time.
He
does
it
a 
third
time
then swing!

Grounder to shortstop
one of the ten percent
that doesn’t roll through a pair of legs.
Runner from second to third
doesn’t have a prayer.
Shortstop can beat him in a footrace.
Coach wants the easy out,
THREE! THREE! THREE!
Shortstop sets his feet,
raises his glove to line up his throw
and fires the ball to first base.
Tomato-faced coach
is just beside himself,
YOU’RE OTHER THREE!!!!

But a strangely accurate throw for a five-year-old
bounces
just once in the dirt
and lands
in the first baseman’s glove.
Batter is out, inning is over.

Coach’s screaming stops.
He exhales
shrugs
shakes a poem off his shoulders,
wisdom as presented by a t-ball game:

life doesn’t always go the way you want
so take your victories where you can get them.

still don’t know why
after, what, nearly fifty years now?
pushing, riding
the sling blade in circles
around the house to
make it pretty?
make it like Tom’s, Dick’s, Harry’s?
obviously, it’s a deprivation
to the bees, to go from
flowers to flower less
in one, maybe two
twenty-fourths of the day
yet, sweet grass smells,
cool evenings barefoot,
playing cornhole with neighbors,
watching robins pick among blades
somehow, in some way
make it seem
less like murder

Who’s girl are you?
The old timer will ask,
But, this here rock don’t 
need no family name
to place my shaved hair
and tattooed skin
in this holler,
where I belong.
Always did.

This here rock won’t say,
“Well now,” or
“That so,”
when I say
I’m Mike Hansel’s girl.
Luther Johnson’s granddaughter,
owned the Cowshed Trading Post.
Remember Barbara Mullins?
Worked at the Board of Education.
That’s my grandmother.

No, this here rock and me,
we know we’re carbon copies
damp and blue out of the press.
Stamped with time,
and a permanency
that predates names.

The sun rose today
and I felt it’s warm rays before I saw it
It warmed my body
and touched my soul

It is clear to me that hope lives
yet why does it seem out of reach 
each person needs to discover it
for themselves

My optimism embraces the warmth
the sun provides and wants to share
the feeling that I get when it shines
but I can’t find the words or the way

But, I can share myself
I can help, love, and encourage others,
and in doing that
I discover hope for myself

my mother bats at the hand toying with my lip
   cherry candies
       black dominoes
my dress is too loose around the bust
the sound of my voice is usually this strange

I had to stab a gold earring through my double an hour ago
it’s still throbbing

my brother draws caricatures on a notepad I give him
to stop him from whispering
     I take the pen and write

‘qu-est ce que c’est?’
he doesn’t know French
I’m just being a sister

the old lady signs to our chanted prayer
one collective concealed grimace as she exclaims
I explain the importance of some words to her
     when my mother starts to get impatient

my legs are crossed, probably
      rhubarb pie
           sparkling water
face constructed of a hundred small, crinkled notes
I am always like this, for reasons desolate and divine