poetry

Fit for Life

/ lovizmytrio / 6 Comments

ninety degrees, heading into the sun,
hour three of a dogged day’s drive.
my sweat gives in to my need for
some cool caffeine, even if it means
stopping at the food devil’s door.

i stand in line behind their typical customer:
400 pounds, greasy white hair,
pack of Marlboros tucked into its home
in his back pocket, he orders his
super-sized meal and waddles around
while the too-thin cashier rings it up.

i catch a glimpse (all it takes)
of his 4X gray T-shirt that
bubbles over his belly
like an ashy house dress.
“Fit for Life: Jesus Christ’s Gym.”

when i discover the latte machine is broken,
the irony leads me across the street where
i put $2.46 down on the gas station counter
for a canned Starbucks, the Indian brothers
taking my money, their heavy accents reminding me
of home, home, home.

Center Stage

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or, Kentucky Sun

Spring rains leveled the grass,
lifted up the trees, and blinded our way home.
Without the familiar echo
of thunder to mar the storm,
our pedals splashed the outpouring
of warm water into every pore.

Soaked as rats upon arrival,
we stood four in a row on the porch,
mesmerized by the suddenness
of the water that washed away
the intolerable heat that had
followed us all around town
for hours, days, weeks.

By the time we’d changed clothes,
the sun returned to center stage,
upstaging the clouds’ attempt
to rule this afternoon with the
persistence of a new Hollywood legend,
and once again warm water (sweat?)
poured out from every pore.

Clucking Their Way Out

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they may appear to be innocent:
barns white as new fallen snow,
idyllic as Mother Nature on
this absent-of-traffic meandering road.

in the early morning light, you
won’t hear the muffled sounds of death
clucking their way out of the
forever-closed doors and windows.

yet for half a mile or more, a circle
of stench radiates into the dewy dawn,
asking only that you take this memory
with you to the chicken aisle of the market.

Ode to Bicycle

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no matter how many times
i strap on this helmet
measure my miles
and make these turns

riding on you is like
the first kiss that i have
kept trapped inside my
fantasies for so long
that my lips (legs) move
into yours as
deliciously as love, love,
love in its purest form.

A New Level of Longing

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Once, when the first was born,
every small smile, every night
of endless crying, brought weepiness
to my eyes and yearning to my
new-mother heart, and I thought there’d
be a time (a time for me, for us without them)
when things would be easier.

Now (and every day since that first birth,
those first strenuous and anxious nights)
I know better. The new-mother yearning
transforms into seasoned-mother longing
and I wish I could snatch back those
moments that I once wished would end,
trap them inside these ever-harder moments
of sibling battles, school-aged woes, and
still-sad-to-see-them-grow goodbyes.

Once, when the first came into the world,
every moment led to a new surprise, a
new milestone, a delighted set of new
parents and grandparents. Now, when
everything is old hat and three lives have
filled our own lives with their love, I know
that things will never be easier, that
every small smile, every night of endless
worrying, leads to a new level of longing.

A Friendly Breeze

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with endless shade
to cover our car
and block the roaring
heat from ruining our picnic,
a friendly breeze to
tickle our skin as we
dash like flitting barn swallows
in and out of the
water whose shallow edge
feels like hot springs
on our multi-sized feet,
three bright-as-light life jackets
and a brand-new floatie
(on which we take turns,
carry the baby like she’s in
a bath, and hang from
like patient puppies next to mama),
we have concluded yet another
perfect Kentucky summer day.

My New Kentucky Home

/ lovizmytrio / 1 Comment

This isn’t what I expected.
I imagined intolerable heat
(and it can be)
flat, muggified air
(sometimes it is)
and having to drive 55 miles
to get anywhere decent
(sometimes i just ride the bike instead).

Yes, it is what I expected.
But I didn’t know about
the rolling country roads
(an endless bike trail),
the diversified forests with
trees as gigantic as the
skyscrapers I’m accustomed to,
rivers and lakes and streams
around every corner that bear
bath-warm water to swim in
morning, noon, and night,
bridges that span the lakes,
rivers, and streams in a
magnificent rainbow of
mile-long architectural beauty,
state parks that have no entrance
fees, free hot working showers,
even swimming pools, hotels,
and golf courses, with grounds
maintained as impeccably as
upscale resorts, humidity that
allows me to breathe easier,
pedal faster, and keep my
contacts in all day long,
and
love for my new Kentucky home.

Southern Sweet Air

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You will never know how perfectly pink
(like the cotton candy they crave) these
wisps of fluffy clouds above me dance as
my ears are filled with only the soft sounds
of arms dipping into the warm-then-cool water.

You will never taste the freshness of
this Kentucky lake (river), with the bass
biting at his bait, with the girls bobbing
up and down like lures alongside the kayak
while the sun pretends to bring coolness as it
sets behind the flood of hardwoods.

You will never have this moment (my moment)
with my face so sweetly exposed to the
southern sweet air, my ears gushing bubbles,
my heart wishing nothing more but
right now, right now, right now, because
you haven’t given in to the heat,
stripped down to your half-naked self,
and run into the water, remembering
(forgetting) for the first time
how to breathe.

In Your Eyes I See Myself

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In your eyes, though they’re hazel
(not deep pools of brown like mine)
I see myself, first when they roll, then
when they lead you into naughtiness,
and as much as I scold you, I know
in my heart I am only scolding myself.

I wish I could take your hand and truly
see the world through those beautiful eyes
of yours, interpreting the truth in a way
I can no longer understand, dancing and
laughing and knowing more than you
(we) should, just so that we could get along,
just so that we can enjoy each other’s company.

In your eyes, though they’re hazel
I see the flecks of brown that come out
darker every day, my lasting mark on you,
the permanence of our colors intertwined
as you dash about, determined (just like I am)
to create your (our) own destiny, letting no one
(even a mother) stop us from getting what we want.

Hugging the White Line

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on the road she told me not to take
i hug the white line
in a race against the sunset,
not used to the countryside
with its erratic traffic,
endless cornfields dotted
with day lilies as red-orange
as the sun behind me,
hills that curve and roll into
each other like waves of
rural nonchalance, and its
dangerous lack of streetlights.

with tunes popped in and
the golden glow of a busy day’s end
pushing me home, i beat
my average speed, sweat
dripping down me with as many
torrents as the rainfall that
left me drenched yesterday,
and I come into town, settle the
bike into place on the porch,
grinning at the silence of the
usually-loud streetlight across
the street, still dark in these last
few moments of light, basking in
these last few moments of the race I’ve won.