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Poetry
(rd king dot net)poetry and digital art
American Summer
Poems written while traveling.
Tartamudeo
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1: Sacramento Mexican gardener in the afternoon heat—hooded sweatshirt, leafblower, intermittent hum rumble, then none. The sounds of my grandson— horseplay in his plastic pool. 2: Curtis Park A slight breeze disturbs a stillness in the sycamores. Sunday morning leisure— a park in repose. The morning glories electric blue salutations. 3: Grass Valley (moon shadow) The evening sheltered by grandiose pines (black silhouettes, black silhouettes). The moon tangled in an old, spreading oak. Crickets, stars, dark splendor. 4: Sacramento Drifting in the grand munificence of an August dusk—swigging a cold beer in the backyard. Watching the light come on in various windows, spreading the night. 5: Words Spoken in French Following the steps of a younger man with a dark-haired chest as he slips into the quiet pool to speak with his beautiful daughter. 6: By the Hotel Pool Small clouds drifting by above a plethora of palm fronds. An aptly blue sky, white umbrellas. Fountain song, birdsong, bird of paradise. 7: Version Galore Lingering at dusk on a windy beach. Reggae music drifting across the Caribbean. Clearly the coco palms are dancing above the empty beach bar where I stop to consider stopping to consider. 8: Soaring A single frigate drifts beneath a clouded sky, above the other birds, above the palmy shore, above the many swimmers who pay no attention. 9: Unbuffered Speech Dusk. Growing stillness. Silhouettes of palms against a darkening cielo. An older couple conversing in endless Spanish in an otherwise empty hotel pool. 10: Mexican Night Waves lapping the beach. Ceiling fan hum and air conditioner drone. Rodents. Drunkards. Raccoons. Empty beer can placed softly on smooth stone. Birds at dawn. 11: No Clavados Most of the younger women have bared much of their buttocks. Most of the older women have left their breasts to fend for themselves. A quiet day at the pool, drinking, listening, watching. Most of the younger men have swept their skin with tattoos. Most of the older men have clearly lived a fine, fat life. Hair, chest hair, genital pouch, the lack thereof. 12: Dallying at the Bar While My Species Destroys the Planet So much depends upon a young gregarious bartender. Not just: Hola. Buenos tardés. Not just: ¿Uno mas cervaza? No—a black butterfly lands on the salted lip of my shot glass. 13: Trio (Zika in Tulum) A trio of frigate birds soaring in a cloud drift sky. Sunset coloring. Above the palmy shoreline, above the Mexicans on the rocks offshore, as I scratch the mosquito bites accumulating on my calves. 14: After Gyozan Without much pain or hardship I've reached my 67th year. Today: a late summer breeze, riding my daughter's bike, another birthday cake. Avid joy. 15: Epilogue (Donner Lake) Suddenly the rumble of a long train struggling to climb Donner Summit. The long history of recent years ever present on a summer afternoon. back | ToC | next
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