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Peaches. Farmer’s Market. by Quin Olpin. September 2024.

Benediction

Candlelight wavers in the silent brush of the ceiling fan
Night air sinks into currents of cool water brought up
From the little creek, the smell of river paired with even
More oxygen lifts and falls on a fleeting breeze, fresh and sweet

Whatever music and magic there is to be had in
The universe is happening right here inside my home
At my table, it happens in moments like these, in every
Pocket of the world tonight– right here, right now, breath easy

Big Dipper. Again and Forever. September 2024. Image, my own.

Horǎ

In dream, the night is thick
with cricket symphony
the grass stalks golden,
long and chilled in the
meadow, above the sentinel
oak the stars prick blackness
like reverse needle-work
intricate dance, flowing and fire,
thousands of light-years away
yet seemingly so near

The tent is simple and
the lashings have been tested
in a storm that whipped through
an hour ago, howling
at the white flaps of canvas,
smattering rain onto the party
but the air now returns to dark stillness.
Lanterns, re-lit, quiver
and sway in simple
atmospheric breaths

I hug my sister close,
smile at a friend across
the way, eyes connecting
and story-telling for just
an instant and then
I am physically
swept away, time suspends
its relentless snick, and
in that instant we spiral
as one

Limbs outstretched, grasping
and firm as we reach
for one another, smiles,
countenances as wide and
open and awed as galactic
arms around and around
We swirl in an ancient pattern
of love, mirrored in the heavens
templated by earth
and actioned by humans

Under the open-sky,
beneath the tent, midst
the lanterns, our heat
rising in healing, and
celebration, and joy,
an eschewance of hatred,
a ceremony of
transcendence and light
through the ages

Plexus no. 34. Gabriel Dawe. Amon Carter Museum, Austin, TX.

Peach

Oh. My. God. Let the sweet
nectar drip over your lips
and down your chin

Why contain this
experience, the velvet
skin, the wet flesh

The fruit of summer
realized, the sweetness
and pleasure, stunning

“We have to beware of the extent to which liberal individualism has actually been an assault on community… when the genuine staff of life is our interdependency, is our capacity to feel both with and for ourselves and other people.” –bell hooks

Interdependency

Oldest: “Mom, mom! You’ve got to come look at this moon!”

Youngest: “Mom, let’s dance to this song right here in the kitchen.”

Oldest: “i love you” “u r srsly weird”

Youngest: “don’t die”

Oldest: “goom, can you send me five gold dubloons for wendy’s?”

Youngest: “Hey, do you know where my hazmat suit is”

Peaches. Claude Monet. Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dresden.

Poppies, West Yellowstone, 2021. Image, my own.

Hunger

I won’t make it. He said. With a seriousness beyond seventeen. I’ll seize up. Freeze.
I won’t be able to crawl on the ground to the escape exit, to climb the bookshelf
To project myself through the ‘hypothetical’ broken glass where the star
Quarterback threw the desk through the shatter-proof window. I won’t move.
He said. As his brown eyes swam in a sea of fear and knowing. Lean limbed,
Hair the color of a house wren’s feathers, sandy brown. Eyes knowing and wide.
I won’t make it.

Desensitization comes from experiencing the same thing over and over and over
So it comes as no surprise when there’s another school shooting many teachers
Parents students don’t even blink, we don’t even pause to take a breath, to wonder
What it would be like if someone brought a gun to our school, what would we do
Instead we slip over to social media to hear snippets of the aftermath, we read
A New York Times article that offers a couple more of the details of the shooting
We go to work early to prepare our lessons and students move through the hallways
Seemingly unaffected. But the reality is that we, as a nation, worship guns more
Than we worship human life. Isn’t that strange and sad. We worship a mechanism
Designed for death—to kill, to end, more than we believe in the sanctity of breath of exist-
ence. What are we afraid of?

You will. I reply. You’ll make it. I’ll pick you up. He was small enough I was pretty sure I could
Do it. I’ll pass you to the closest person to the window. We’ll jump through the shatters,
Shards of glass all over the floor and grass beneath my classroom. We’ll make it. You’ll make
It. It was the first time we’d really had to sit in the corner of the classroom, our back
To wall, practicing waiting die is one of the most cognitively dissonant experiences I’ve tried
Blood beating, pulsating, trembling in my ears. Cheeks hot, heartbeats rise. I won’t make it.
He said. And I knew that he was probably right.

Deer Creek Reservoir, Sunset, September 2024. Image, my own.

Wonder

Open-eyed
Glimmer
Smile that lifts
Every part of the
Human frame
Awe that creeps
Into cheekbones
That breaths
On lips ready
For uplift
Sacred tilt of
The head
Stillness of shoulders
Confirming
Listening
Sensing
Magic

Pasture Plus Cows and Wheel Lines. September 2024. Image, my own.

Bike
Pedal, pedal, push
Push, huff, huff, up, up, over
crest the tipy-top

Double Rainbow over Soldier Hollow.September 2024. Image, Corbin Wright.

Sticky

So these poems are actually micro-narratives. You can play with these at the kitchen table. I triple-dog-dare you. The premise is simple. Write a ten, 10, word narrative about yourself. Key: do not overthink this. This is such a fun little enterprise to play with in the 1010 intro to writing class I teach.