crossings (excerpt)

right after that woman made that racist comment in the diversity workshop

that went unattended about not being someone whose family had gotten here

by crossing a river, a friend and I raced, ran full out to catch up

to the group getting to the boats for a sunset cruise of the canal.  we

lunge with bags hefted and jettison all dec(orum) as we vault bionic

down the convention maze and I hear the duhduhduh of jamie summers as

we dodge left and lap right and leap onto the escalator, panting like dogs for our one last jump.

little did we know we didn’t need to race

for our lives (this time), though for us, whose ancestors crossed on boats

unwilling, shackled; for those whose ancestors crossed desperate or forced out;

and for those displaced and slaughtered by ancestors who came on boats;

we knew instantly how to run as if our lives depended

on it. we are a species crouched on the brink, the future

threatened to break, and we summon our strength, hurdle thump,

hurdle thump, hurdle thump. the waters we hurry to cross

are invisible: the deep, stained structures of ownership, denial, dominion.

what will the stories be, and the skills and cultures, ten lines down,

200 years from now? i hope it’s not the waters of the milky way

they cross, infecting other places. in the north american canals

of willingness, let the lapping waters soften us. it’s what we don’t take

that matters. what we put down. here at the brink. the chasm, the ridge

the cliff, the cleft, the jump-off, the bridge.  like fools leaping

off. or over. let our magic bags on a stick be light. filled with autumn leaves

of leaving, and seeds, magic beans, for saving. launching into the cool waters

willingly, this time, and for joy at how water teaches presence, teaches

that sky and land are one, mirrored partners in beauty, this cloud, this water, this land

without gizmos or plugging in, we are part of the river of life running through.

let us be this clear, there is no where at all to go. water teaches:

we are right here. water: river, ocean, giver generous. quivering sun and moon,

giving these back. flexible fabric of connection. slaking thirst and making life.

at the verge of these inner crossings, we lay down

the need to flee in fear either from or toward some migration to somewhere

else. we no longer know whether our children’s children

of all species will survive. we know some will make it through.

we have the canny craft of those who came before. the whisper

wisdom of those who are to come. we lift up a handful of leaves

and crinkle them into duff. the trees have already contracted the green

the chloroplasts, and hunkered off. make your choices. here in the winter

of planetary life, we contract, saving what matters

which is not something

that can be

plugged in.

Unipedally Riffed

Left,
Left,
Left, left, left.

I left
Jeff Taft
bereft by a cliff.

He sniffed,
miffed
that I stiffed him in the lift.

I laughed
'til I coughed
as I rebuffed his guff.

Our theft
was deft
staffed by Steffi Graf.

He cuffed
me on the cleft,
and that's when I

Left,
Left,
Left, left, left. 

Hopped UP

                                                

Hopped up

Came down

Ears flapped

Same foot

Pogo sticky left

Behind

Written on it:

"Right to bare arms"

W/ thanks to my Muse

IMUNURI Prompt: Hopalong

Xpogo RioCC BY-SA 3.0  Wikimedia Commons

Pogo sticks
Kangaroos
Rockets to the moon

Jump on one foot for one whole minute (time it) then write a poem (about that or about anything) - bonus for noticing - how does it change the pace and rhythm of your writing?

Extra credit: pretend you are in a slow motion movie for part of the time, gravity permitting. How does that change it?

Tags: hopalong, poet name, poem