Posts for June 22, 2022 (page 7)

I am just now finding my way home,
After wandering the woods,
In circles,
And spirals,
And patterns like the EKG
From a massive heart attack.

I’ve been lost for centuries…
Or at least hours.

I followed a red-haired woman
Into a copse of  birch trees.
I’m not even sure why…
She just looked like she knew where she was going,
And I didn’t,
So I tagged along,

After five hundred miles…or five,
She let out a thorny laugh,
Then leapt over a thorny hedge,
Like a flirtatious fox,
And disappeared.
I knew there was no catching up,
And I really didn’t want to;
The conversation thus far
Had been pretty one-sided.

I continued on alone,
Until I reached a fork in the forest.

There was a path,
Just off to the right,
Well-worn with footfall,
Shafts of gilded sunlight,
Illuminating the way,
And birds singing,
With a welcoming warble.
The kind of trail
Made for skipping,
And daydreaming,
And flower picking,
And finding oneself.

But, remembering that poem,
I chose the other path,
The one to the far left,
The one seldom traversed.

And there, I stayed lost,
Amidst the hostile foliage
And botanical chaos.
Finally, emerging
Bejeweled in insect bites,
As red as rubies.
Itching, even on the inside,
From encounters with every species
Of poisonous plants,
Blistered, broken,
Barely alive to tell the tale.

But wiser…
Having learned a singular life lesson:
Sometimes the road less traveled
Is that for a reason
And should remain so.

In the right place at the right time, the force
that causes things to fall to the ground
is overpowering. This is the birth of a star.

The reaction between elements 
changes them. A star can burn so strong,
onlookers can see it and feel the heat. 

The more the elements interact, the faster they burn.
But all we know is old news – we can only
see the star as it was, no matter how hard we try.

In dying, some stars explode, flashing as bright as
a billion of their kind, and leave a reminder. Others
fade to cloud, so you’d never know they were there. 

I don’t know which kind we are.
This is the birth of a poem. 
I have been saying goodbye to you for twenty years.

To anticipate another earthquake like the one
that knocked the trumpet from the hand
of the angel atop the temple’s highest spire,
many workers walk in hardhats, wearing 
backpacks and trading early morning jokes
about the port-a-potty crowning the scaffolding
of their new holy place. They pour a foundation
sixteen feet deep and sixteen feet wide,
lay a network of pipes, ascend 250 feet
to break for lunch, and with the angel
listen to the music coming from the tabernacle,
many breaths lifted for the afternoon,
with the aid of a trumpet, their vision
combining to bring our world into being.

I know only how to say thank you in this language
and it is entirely sufficient.
Took me too long to understand
that thank you is a synonym for all words in all languages
and has no antonyms at all.

Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova

I get a jump on my upcoming
death by taking my ghost
for a walk in the woods,
the grass is tender dry
and without a sound we slip
past the low water pond where
the lilies have lost their flags
and go to a trinity of red oaks
who share a base of gnarled roots.
Astonished to see last week’s wind
has taken down two of the three,
my ghost chuckles that the Father 
and Son are on their way to rot 
but Holy Spirit is holding up well.
Not funny I think.  On my knees
digging black cohosh from beneath
the fallen trunks, my arm, sliced
by a wid rose thorn, bleeds onto
the ground. Like a priest giving
benediction my ghost calls out: even
when your grand children are forgotten
by their grand children, this soil
will remember the taste of you

Two days in a row
I have seen a single feather stuck in the crack of the sidewalk.
Alone, the pointed quill, an anchor to keep it tethered,
My heart in parallel with the ruffled and haggard vane, so tired and worn.
Only to look up and see the bird flying free

you looked up from your book
and caught me looking at you
you smiled, and I smiled back
we never spoke, and you 
got off the train at the next stop

though I rode the same route
every day–to and from my job
at the department store–
I never saw you again,
but I thought about you–
your smile, your eyes
your big hands 
and broad shoulders
your neatly trimmed
and clean hair
your pressed suit
and the book 
you were reading,
something called
The Idle Hours

I looked for you 
every day,
for a time,
then, the smoke
and bustle of 
the train distracted me
from my reveries
and life, somehow,
went on

I hope it did for you, too
I hope you found–
and kept–
peace, and joy,
and love

Love, most of all

I love my hammock,

connected tree to tree,

A sun-dappled respite

suits me to the tee.

I lay my head on the pillow

and close my eyes.

Listen to the sounds

coming from land and sky.

I feel cradled and nurtured

like I am one with these oaks.

A Mother and Father,

love the feeling this evokes.

I can see the holly tree out my window,
its green sea of thorns: it’ll be time to trim
it back soon, before branches 
block the view of the neighboring house 
where the newlyweds live. 

I like to watch them hold hands as they walk down the drive, 
he opens the car door for her to climb in,
always off to brunch with their young friends 
or on some adventure across the river 
or down lively Nashville way. 

It’s sadly quiet when they’re gone —
no string trimmer working the ragged
edges of the space between us,
no sunbathing on the deck,
no soft voice calling from the kitchen
asking if he’s hungry. It’s just the
two of us, dear, strangers behind devices,
wondering how much it’ll rain.

Headlights slice the ceiling 
to tell us they’ve returned. 
We lower our tablets, our battered shields,
and listen to their laughter as they stand 
at the back door fiddling with the stubborn lock.
It’s laughter which seems to say
we’re aware that you are watching,
and we see what you’ve become.