Month: August 2019

We stamped a rain dance in circles 
recited nonsense chants  
we just liked the sounds of the words 
lifted our arms to the accumulating clouds 
wore paper headpieces decorated for the occasion 
lifted our faces to the rain  
It was something to pass the time 
we were just playing 

Sometimes, in the in between hours 
when daylight colors have settled in their rocking chairs 
rocking to the rhythm of crickets 
I remember the old dances 
I can hum the old songs 
I remember what was sacred 

Resolution

Let’s be red this year 
blood-red lilies 
pushing through a crust 
relentless 
blooming for one solid day 
born 
to the rhythm of flamenco 
layer upon layer of ruffles dizzy, gasping 
swirling and flapping 
jingling like a caravan 
heavy with pots and pans 
every banged-up scrap of metal  
reflecting the blinding sun 

Fair-Weathered Friends

Since it’s August, I’ve been thinking about the County Fair. Several years ago, one summer day, my brother started a conversation with me: 

“I was kinda thinking about going to the fair this year.” [Neither of us had been there in decades.]  
“Me, too! Did you want to go on some of the rides?”
“No…”
“Oh. Did you want to look at the animals?”
“I mean, I guess, if I’m there…”
“Did you want to look at all the exhibits?”
“Mmm…not really.”
“Well what did you want to do there?!”
After thinking for a minute, he answered, “I kinda just wanted to walk around and eat a bunch of food that’s bad for you.”

We did go to the fair that year. We went on some carnival rides, saw the farm animals and local vendors, looked at prize-winning vegetables and 4-H projects, and bought cotton candy. It became a tradition for a number of years.  

His reason for wanting to go seemed funny at the time, but it also reminds me of the best friendships: you don’t have to arrange some special activity in order to get together. Just being there, hanging out, is enough.  

It’s like she was born brokenhearted 
each song a just-lit fuse 
heartbreakingly beautiful 
You could crush a brick wall  
with your voice 
you could crumble a mountain 
with the force of your silence 
I would walk through acres of sunflowers 
to show you the color of your soul 
dazzlingly yellow 
Is it light? 
Is it love? 
Is it breathless hope? 
It’s in there 
still 
like a jack in the box 
ready to spring out 
at the highest note 
If only you could taste it  

The tree across the street looks like a Bob Ross painting 
you can see the layers of paint jabbed onto the canvas 
first, the color of forest in shade 
thirst quenching, almost black 
next, a regal pine green 
serious, quiet 
then a bright grass green 
overflowing with life, like summer itself 
silvery sage green highlights the very tips 
capturing each change of expression 
the end of each upright branch ignited by yellow 
turning the tree into a candelabra 
drenching the evening in mood lighting 
each brushstroke a beat in Bob’s meditative cadence 
out here, his soothing refrain replaced by a horde of insects 
buzzing like wind-up toys 
maybe they are saying the same thing, just in another language 
anyone can make a tree 
it’s easy 
you can do it 
if you believe