THE GROVE

She walks slowly, the streets
she once knew well, so much changed
by time and memory released into the fog.
It is hard going back when back
is no longer there, where the store you owned,
a place where you spent countless hours
is now a sandwich shop, and
so many others gone altogether
for modern brick, concrete and glass.
Still there is a T-shirt which she
will wear as a badge of what was,
a play she will never forget, as I
remember the park in Salt Lake City
were mescaline and blotter acid
made the maples float above the ground
and we sat in the summer rain
and imagined golden butterflies
but that too is gone as are all
of the coconuts that once filled this grove.

BACK IN THE DAY

My uncle and I would sneak away
from the seemingly endless party,
no one wanted to attend and couldn’t leave.
We go up to my room and turn on the radio.
He’d want to look for the Senators game,
but they’d left town and
no radio could pull in Minneapolis anyway,
but despite Killebrew, Arbitron sealed their fate
and this was Yankees country as well.
I try to pull in C H U M from across the lake.
It played music the local DJs wouldn’t touch,
in which never found their constrictive playlists,
provided by dad’s pal, the local rack jobber
come self-assumed all label A&R man.
Still, Mel would listen with me until he was missed
then try and sneak back to the party, while I
listen Don into the night, hearing songs
I have to hunt for at the record store,
for one thing I knew was that it didn’t
have a section marked Canadian Content Rule.

THE LADIES

It is an ungainly beast
and its cry, as much a bleat
as a roar, can pierce the air
and is never easily ignored.
There are far larger to be found,
and far more beautiful.
Some have voices that melt anger
incite passion, alleviate pain.
Some sing in a register so low
touch and hearing are merged.
Even this beast has its smaller kin,
gentler, if not ever soothing,
happy to fill a room, not a universe.
But the great beast has
always known its place,
held in the arms of and cradled
informal procession, carried
forward into battle by
the so-called Ladies from Hell.

TRES PIEDRAS

We remember the oddest moments of life,
the tragedies, the occasional comedy,
but mostly the unusual moments that etch themselves
into memory in ways you would not have expected.
Driving along the mostly deserted road,
a moonless night, or nearly so, the Mesa
cold and forbidding, not at all reminiscent of the birth
to be celebrated by the world
the next day, as it had for millennia.
The movie was dark and heavy,
the meal somewhat the same,
dominating the conversation… THUD —
a sudden shift left into the oncoming lane,
no one, thankfully, oncoming, the door caved in,
passengers’ bones checked, none broken, all badly shaken.
In the beam of the flashlight, is an elk, sitting
off the road, still much alive but shaken, and
in the first light of morning, moved further
into the scrub, and by afternoon, off into the foothills.

ABRIDGED STORY

On our first visit to Prague
it was almost hard to imagine that this bridge
was built to ferry people and traffic across the River.
Now it is jammed with tourists and those
for whom tourists are a ubiquitous market,
and anyone needing to expeditiously cross
the cranky water that every now and again must
indulge the bridge, or use the less interesting bridges adjacent.
There is a veneer of age about this ancient
the statuary darkened by time and weather
replaced when the waters get truly petulant
and carry off statues they deem an affront.
Motion on the bridge is slow and can tend
toward gridlock, to the joy of those
selling art and tchotchkes, and tchotchke arts
that won’t be truly regretted by the buyer until
it is hung on the wall next to the waterglobe
miniatures of St. Matthias church and
the parliament buildings Budapest.

CARTOGRAPHY

On the map
are neatly etched lines
drawn by a fine stylus
in a skilled hand
separating blue from yellow.
This soil is cinnamon
there tending to mahogany
no line, only a post
here, one there
and a gun emplacement
to deter those
who cannot see
a line writ on water.
In the wind the dust
dances across and back
dodging the post
or caressing it
it tastes the rain
which falls
both here and there.
High above
the buzzard
watches the lizard
scurry through
the shadow of the sign
seeing neither
blue nor yellow.
Halt, you cry
are you
of this land
or that?
I am of neither
I am the ocher
of the land
from which I rose
into which I will recede
I am the mote
of dust
that lodges
in the corner
of your eye
and in the corner
of his
until neither
can see
the line
that is not.


First Publshed in Peacock Journal Anthology, 2017 V. 1 No 2