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.
At 5:30 sharp we sat down to dinner, Dad at the head and the five of us kids scattered
around. There was meatloaf with the Heinz ketchup brown sugar glaze and Mom’s
homemade scalloped potatoes creamy with milk, slivers of onion, grated cheddar cheese
dotted with butter.. Steamed fresh green beans. She always had three, a meat, starch, and
vegetable. Salad was lettuce, quartered bright red tomatoes, shiny green sticks of green
pepper from Dad’s backyard patch of garden.
Dinnertime was family time. After the blessing, the boys would wolf down their food,
especially the meat. It was a race to grab the last piece of meat on the platter. Dad watched
like a hawk, diving in for the kill piercing the meat with his fork. A collective groan emerged.
We were hungry, not in the mood for Dad’s barrage of questions. My friend Linda Lynn
gave it the moniker, 20 Questions after staying with us one summer which is a whole other
story. Dad chortled when she said it, something we would be sent to our room for even
suggesting. He tried to connect and keep abreast of our lives, both academic and social.
Mom filled in the gaps, cushioned the bad, always the peacemaker. How was the math test?
You mean the one you kept me up till 2am showing your engineering precision to my artsy
brain? Who needs algebra anyway?
Pitting us against each other while he watched from the sidelines laughing. Aware
that he did it for amusement, we fell for it every time. He took time to know our
triggers. Deep down we were glad.
I love your soul,
not just a tad bit no
it’s like a rabbit hole
and if you’re a dipole I’m the opposite I know because the operant pairing makes me whole
you carry me away; arteriole
a good trip like cheerio
I clearly need to know,
how deep it is you go
Where else could I go fot a story prompt,
Where else would I have seen real life unfold
Other than the Walmart in the floodplain
By the railroad tracks
Where I used to shop for records
At the original discount store?
I bought Beatles records
Blue and white and Sgt. Pepper
Frolicking in circles – scratch needle in groove
Where could I go to see the big bottom girls
On bicycles while Qyen shines on
In bohemian rhapsody?
No, kiss me under the bleachers,
Behind the dumpster, in the backseat
Of a Chevy at the drive-in.
Giant creatures battling for domination
And your hand slipped over my breast
And maybe south of there.
But the Walmart still has McDonald’s
Still has big mommas smacking their children
And blue jeans rumpled on the shelves
And fake Nike sneakers
And orange cheese puffs
And coke-a-cola.
Where else could I find you
Since the days when this place flooded
And the train rattled by, blowing its whistle?
