Saturday, June 27, 2015

June 27 -- Saturday in the Park


  1. Summer breeze flirts
    with the hem of her skirt.
    Her heels rise.
    Her body trembles.
    She defies gravity,
    reaching for the last sweet plum.


    1. Ah, that's wonderful! Love that quick poem!

  2. In your orchard
    even the bruised fruit
    tastes sweet to me.


  3. Kuns Park

    a small square
    escape in
    the city
    cool respite

    1. Man, coach used to have us do windsprints around Kuns Park! Lovely place, but I have only evil memories of dying and being beaten by all the other runners.

  4. In this town they get a jump on the fourth and shoot off fireworks at the park celebrating a week early. They call it Murrieta’s birthday, as if the city was born out of the chaparral and dust to live the American Dream forever.

    I wonder about its death.

    Will there be a eulogy, a gravestone and mourners when the sports park exhales its last breath? Will people still love it and forgive its shortcomings, remember its best moments?

    We go every year, park on a side street when the sun drops, and walk down to the field. Last year was a little tricky though. We were with a close friend fresh out of rehab.
    The following week she would fall off hard and be back in again.

    The celebration didn’t last long.

    The fireworks didn’t seem as bright that year; the oohs and aaws muted like they were coming from some distant room; the flashes of exploding color even more temporary and when the smoke faded we knew it would be dark for a long time.

    Love and addiction can become desperately intertwined, sometimes unable to separate an optimistic flash of clarity from the deadening blast of reality that follows echoing in the night.

    It’s another year and as sure as old age it’s the city’s birthday again.

    We’re planning on parking on a side street, but this year feels different, optimistic, like the colors won’t fade quite as quickly and the darkness that follows won’t be a death shroud, but instead a moment of peace until the birth of another dawn.

    1. That's great man. Really painful and real.

  5. Nature

    With it's nose to the ground
    Smelling every inch of the surface
    Leading unleashed I walk softly relaxing
    To the rhythm of green grass and tall trees
    I take a breath of fresh air meditating on the
    Birds playing like children without a care
    A sound of a faint radio in the distance playing
    Saturday in the Park by Chicago
    The irony makes me laugh and feel
    as though I may be on a spiritual journey
    The smell of fresh cut grass and the tall
    Eucalyptus trees blowing in the breeze
    Squirrels unwilling to share their presence
    give annoying grunts in disgust wanting me
    to move on my way and the scrub jay in the
    distance giving a loud boisterous welcome
    to the new intruder as I walk softly and breathe
    taking it all in

  6. Happy Birthday

    The remnants of pink streamers
    fishtail on the breeze
    a near deflated balloon
    cruises lazily along the grass
    trashcans are overflowing
    with wadded balls of bright paper
    a trickle of smoke from the BBQ
    Sends its faint SOS into the sky
    a forgotten piece of candy
    lays motionless under the tree
    confetti dots the sticky concrete
    under the faded wooden benches
    backseats are loaded with sleepy children
    their bellies full of hotdogs and cake
    Happy Birthday

    1. Great work Molly. You're really turning into a poet!

  7. Balance (saturday in the park)

    I was late to this art — the delicate
    Hovering over the two wheels of youthful
    locomotion —
    But he of the former total impatience brought
    Me to the park as the urban leaves began their
    Greenness we rented the vehicle and he
    Held the back of it and said pedal
    And ran with me down the road between
    The fountain and the boats. I saw my
    Feet moving on the black pumping rectangles. Look up he
    Shouted breathless, steer, and then he let go
    That feeling of weightlessness as I left him behind
    But I heard him shouting hoarsely you’ve got it
    You’ve got it. I never really liked riding, but that
    Moment of release with him waiting in the distance
    For me to turn around — I still have it whenever
    I accomplish something, knowing somewhere in
    The background he lets go of me, yet still
    Waits, completely attentive, utterly present