It’s cherries to have been born
into the most powerful country,
white and male, comfortably
middle class, never made
to work the fields
at five years old picking the ready crop,
scrub clothes along the riverside,
or put our tender hearts
through the meat grinder of war,
to have pissed in the stream,
cooked the crawdad alive,
pulled our compadres
from the top of the hill —
storm clouds roiling
the blunt horizon —
to have claimed the summit
as if we owned the thing.
more about your
common heart-
easy below
blocked by emotions
in case you learn
can’t get enough
blood from the body
can live only a few-
easier in narrow supply
cut off too much inside
exceeded my expectations
yet not in a positive way
this did not pan out like I imagined
or rather, hoped
rains pours from a thunder filled sky
today
this last day of June
I’m reminded the second half begins tomorrow
I smile after shedding a few tears
and muster some self encouragement
nothing is awful and I will remain
I am that stable
though I feel numb
disappointed more than anything
I am ready, or so I thought
the Universe though, has other plans
I despise self-pity
so I pledge not to stay in this state long
tomorrow is a new day
new month, etcetera
this day, I choose to allow the rain and wind have their way
mainly because I apparently cannot have mine
My 11th grade English teacher told me
I wrote one of the best story entries.
She was the last person to tell me that.
Years of rejection followed by zero congratulations.
I think about her, what she saw, what she read.
I wonder what spark I had
and why it dimmed
Or maybe, she was just lying.
Thoughtless
As we choke on smoke
from faraway flames, you say,
I hope it won’t rain.
Squall
White flash, raucous crash!
Instant ear-splitting thunder.
My heart scares up, flushed
like a dog-hunted pheasant,
settles with the smell of rain.
The tree whose roots cannot reach
missed the theater
you’d marked
and about-faced
dust secret
between my toes
runing the long way
down towards
the house keeping
your relics secure
against rains
one even bears
your name,
saint francis envelopped
silent beside
the trees
of lightfused metal
(from Baladas y Canciones del Paraná [1953-1954])
Now, the clouds carried me
flying
to the map of Spain.
How slight on the river,
and vast on the pastures
the loom of shadow that was cast!
Horses completely filled
the pall thrown on the meadows.
And I, mounted among them,
looked for my country and for
my home.
I happened
into a muddy open-air yard
once a watery spring.
Although no fount remained
it echoed back for always.
I say, the water that did not flow
returned to give me coolness.
Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi
there was Chase Lake
just outside the blue line
on the edge of the Adirondacks.
Its tea-colored waters warmed
by sun, cooled by underwater
springs. Sunnies and blue gills
easy catches from the dock,
biting on worms or bologna.
Pan fried, a delicious breakfast.
Canoe, rowboat, paddle boat,
freedom on the water. Swimming
to the little island, picking
blueberries for pancakes.
Beavers lodge, otter slide
at Parson’s pond. Every
summer full of magical
surprise, until it all
suddenly ended.
