The Water Pass
Under a National Forest bridge,
the Fork of some river cut under us
and on the hills we could see where the water used to be.
Vast squares were cut out from the mountains,
timber lined the roads in wet piles
as the rain in the our higher elevation
fell on us and us alone.
The clouds and the fog met their harmony.
The river was flat and flowing,
the bridge looked its age
and the rust was another soft color
for the flow below it to reflect.
I read signs and learned history
while she took the trail
that seventy years of feet had built.
Someone must have seen us from the road
but we never saw anything truly move.
From Any Eyes
National Park greens and reds,
erosion through time and beating,
creating these greens and reds.
The water, being fluid and clear as it is,
and the idea of a lack of creation.
There’s a historical stigma,
a Protection stigma,
there’s a frozenness to even the brightest of days.
The waters are calm,
the storms are harmless;
distances are never too far.
It’s alright to stay on the beaten trail,
it’s okay to go off,
the land has yet to be fully trotten,
but it will never grow old,
no, it can never cease being ageless.
There’s a sensation, undeniable,
the dream of being the first to see something,
to think of those who came before
and were the first to be struck by beauty.
But we all get it, we all are the first,
this land, so harmless, so unharmed,
so restless but unfiltered,
is something new to gaze upon
from any vantage, from any eyes.
Giving me confidence in my surroundings,
I’d seen a Blue Jay at night,
in a tree and a nest.
I’d seen a bat once,
huddled and hiding,
attached to a landing.
And I thought of an ocean,
it never mattered which one,
and the water clung to the basins,
pulled by a Moon, but never leaving it’s home.
And I’d seen people, of course,
and how they walked and moved;
how they leaped for the stars
starting with their feet firmly on the ground.
And I knew of a pilot,
commanding our own birds of the skies,
and how he landed at his destination
to sleep in a bed
in a building on foundation.
I’ve dreamt of floating,
of weightlessness and soaring,
but I always knew my home
was on solid ground.
The Serbian Permanent Mission to the U.N. in New York is a Lonely Place
The Serbian Permanent Mission to the U.N. in New York is a lonely place.
There used to be days when the run would set
on the Police Guard in his almost primitive hut,
crouched inside his tall box,
for the imminent attackers on the Yugoslavian Permanent Mission to the U.N.
in New York.
And on the days they came,
the Officer was joined by throngs of friends, both in uniform and in the streets,
to make his little nook worth the months if not years of waiting.
The Serbs and the Croats, and the Yugos and the Kosovians and the Bosnians have changed that,
they took his little world.
And where once say the officer in his tall hut,
now sits a restless cook out for a smoke,
or a Visa seeker eagerly waiting for the doors to swing open.
Peace has its pluses and minuses,
but for the Kingdom of one man,
while he’s on his shift,
peace is nothing but another word for destruction.
There was something eating at me,
after I’d eaten quite a bit,
and I swam to the shore so I could throw up
on a tree stump that also held my weight.
I learned my lesson that day
and swore to never swim on a alcohol filled stomach
at least until the next time I forgot.
I was in shorts, not a bathing suit,
and the water had that clear taste to it,
like water suddenly has a taste sometimes
and the entire thing tastes clean but wrong.
I thought about all the times I pissed in a pool
or the few times I was sea sick,
and how water is always clean,
like it goes through a huge purifier
right before we see it,
through some process that we never see.
I guess that’s an inane thought,
but there is something to be said there.
I’m just not the one to say it.
I saw fireflies in a city park
like they were meant to be there.
Near the homeless people sitting
at the checkers tables,
it wasn’t a big local park either.
This wasn’t a place where you could lose yourself
or were in that perfect spot
where the tall buildings rooftops can’t peer down upon.
No, I could see the bar lights and taxicabs,
and then a wisp of flickering light before me,
graceful unlike any other bug.
I’d prepared my belongings for the summers catch.
Two months at sea, I had nets and poles,
and plans and charts.
I treaded waters in boats and brought up empty nets
time and time again.
I was hunting an elusive fish, or fishes,
up and down a coast line straight.
For two months I weathered storms
but rarely truly cast a pole in hopes of catching.
I was more content at sea than on land.