There is a red basket
Next to the billowing Stack, filled with Nothin but a cockrel’s Feathers. The simple kreel does Not move as it is not Held down in the boat As the small boy Clings to his father not To fall Into the watercolors Ripple away from the Small canoe, feathering Out into the colorless Waves creating silence. Masinko, the fish flies Into the kreel to be Held delicately by the Thin fingers of the down Cushion. Man then smiles upon his Son for her children Will eat and be so Consumed. When the contents prepared Their cold, clouded Eyes opaque in Dead disparity, yet The red basket. As broiler fires the colors Devour the fish and It becomes a higher Opal of universal light. The billowing stack does not Cause a cough in the boy for his color Lifts the smoke. From the edge of his Eye’s splash he is clean. At lake’s edge, where mud is rich and reeds thin, four splashing boys cleave ankle-deep, arrowed avenues through dense islands of algae. With sunbrowned backs bent to noon, they drive nets through water, in steady crescent sweeps, and slowly scoop up worlds of plankton and scum. Holding their catches skyward, water seeps from sheer fabric of nets and sends shivering ripples as it drips back into the lake, and pleased with the take, they step to the shore in reverent silence, kneel on the bank, offer their loads on the face of a sun-hot stone. The boys grin and squint in the radiant blaze of summer, affirmed in divine child- hood as they watch the world sizzle and squirm. 2003 Poetry, "Between A and B" --Mr. KirkHow long will it take a man
to travel from A to B? A grade school story problem. On paper, it seems so straight. A matter of flat arithmetic. Let’s say he traveled by air. And imagine that while flying something important Popped or some bolt that held him aloft happened to Snap And the whole thing came unwinding down like the secret to a trick. Would the story end there, or perhaps might it begin. The topography of between is the real riddle and as charted as may be, will never give up the ghost. We may cling to prepositions to keep us afloat: above and beneath; over and under; but they too remain unheedingly mute. From up to down is a riddling between a billion times more frightening than B. Let’s get back to the problem. The answer is three hours. Or five. Or nine. But are we anywhere different from where we began? 2003 “City Life”
the shining lights reflect off your face walking around this fast pace place a diverse group of people come together only to separate on the Subway get off at Times Square and walk a few blocks to see a wonderful play or musical on Broadway read a book in a cozy Bookshop; shop in SoHo i never want to be away look forwards look back look anywhere stop trying to navigate your way through situations you can’t control everything happens for a reason things happen the way things do the universe will work it’s magic and it’ll make it’s way to you and i The inspiration I got for this poem was from me reflecting on how I sometimes want to control the outcome in certain scenarios or situations. I usually end up trying so hard that it backfires and I end up getting the opposite oh what I originally wanted. Sometimes though, when you don’t get what you want, you can actually end up with something better. I reflect on it and think that I shouldn’t try so hard, just go with the flow. A bonus of letting things just happen is the serendipity that can occur.
candles lit incense burning radiating warmth and lovely scents darkness surrounding the light and I toss, turn, toss, turn close your eyes breathe, relax sacred time sleep |
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