spinning black tires
rounding horse farm loop
car wheels slow to watch
begin and end begin again
second daughter around
bullfrog discoveries
on the path that never ends
toddler sliding grinning
again and again and again
stroller tires bumping along
rounded out by a golden circle
settling itself on
spherical shoulders of trees.
Month: June 2011
Cultural Show
for you
it is the word
the life
the soul
for me
an annual cultural show
actors shifting, shouting
trying to convince me
you thank me
beg me to return
perhaps i will
but no season tickets for me
no standing ovations, bravos
for words that are lost
among the shouts, the anger,
the heavy weight of guilt
for a life i love too much.
Quilt
with chunks of chicken
sticker books and melting chocolate
crinkly bags of beef jerky
mini pencils strewn like petals
crumbs in every crack
we make our way along the border
its golden sphere beckons us to stop.
we can’t go inside but see the perfect playground,
the grass soft as our new carpet,
the two-story fountain filled with children
who hear it erupt and rush
like carnivorous hawks toward fresh prey,
and i forget
(for all of ten minutes)
that i am not one of them,
but the parent
now soaked from head to toe,
dress sticking to my legs
as my three little girls
weave me in and out of spurts
in our quilt of childhood joy,
sewing up the perfect end
to a dogged day’s drive.
Butterfly Wing
With butterfly wing in palm
Hickory nuts woo her through woods
And she asks questions
Old enough now
For me to be left incapable
Of answering
How can I respond
cotton-mouthed reluctance
Keeps the words
Trapped
Fearful of the truthful
Consequence of her
Coming-of-age reality
Her butterfly wing
Crumbles apart at
The soft blow from her lips
Falls to the ground
In pieces
Carrying my lost words
Back to the Earth.
Fresh
We are heavy with heat
With exhaustion bearing down
But we climb the hill
With legs we didn’t know we had
In the shade we dismount
Climb into the trees
With feet lusting for lake water
We meet up with the shore
A new day begins at noon
As we slip our sweat sweetly off
Diving into the rocky bottomed
Clear-as-sky freshwater bath.
Bullfrogs
they have never seen
or collected one by one
bullfrogs hopping into the water
quicker than a wind shift
we pace like predators
around the pond
tiny whispered voices containing
excitement over bulging eyes
there are no mountains here
only hills so dense with trees
you’d never see the rocky bottoms
when we’re so used to rocky tops
instead horses swing reluctant tails
in air as thick and slow as syrup
and we watch a turtle slither on a log
and frog after frog hop into our hearts.
One Cold Button
you’re right
there are poems
they aren’t nice
but there’s no way
you read them
one slur
one cuss
one moment of frustration
and i’m gone
until you see me in august
right there beside you
or will i be placed
as before
at the back of the room
my own seat
my own misery
uselessness surrounding me?
you
ARE
in
the
nightmares
of
rejection
with that stupid click
of one
cold
button.
My Sunset
Kentucky heat on a
new side of the state
(one that doesn’t give in
to early sunsets)
guides us up and down
hills on a windless evening
i grin,
back on the bike
after a week,
two whirlwind drives
six states over from
the mountains
as lush vines
thick-as-elephant tree trunks
and curvacious
nonchalant
southern hills carry us home
we stop
just shy of their house,
a perfect park
(playground and all)
distant trees
gripping the edges
of a burning red circle
that strikes
my sixteen-year-old heart
still beating lovingly
all these years later
that same sun
hidden by wisps of clouds
a bright mark of beauty
on the tired world
over the spires and forests
of Oxford
now reappears,
and i have no stairs to sit on,
no lonely walk home,
no desperate inquiries
in a dorm hallway
about what was missed,
but instead
my hands on my handlebars,
him standing beside me,
my sunset shared at last.
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