The Fifth Dimension

Grandkids learn their ABCs
to musical stories on TV
while my thoughts fly away,
far and wide, whooshed
among waffling oak leaves,
poked under pungent pines,
riding high on moist clouds,
sliding down a hot breeze,
finally coming to rest in
early evening light
as the summer
meanders on,
while my
seeking
soul
abides

The American Sin

Man’s inhumanity to man
took a much-needed hit
when a secret home video
showed George Floyd-unarmed-
slammed to the street, head
pounded into the ground, neck
pressed under a uniformed knee
for nine long minutes in the
northern city of Minneapolis.

Meanwhile, two novice cops
stood silently by, watching
but not interfering. Later on,
news came out that the killer-
cop had a part-time security
gig at a bar with the guy he
had just pressed to death.

Colonial patriots wrote
our beautiful Constitution
while engaged in slave-
buying, selling, prostitution.
Claiming Christianity, but
Indulging in hypocracy,
they launched a democracy
to promote the plantation
economy. It took beatings
and lynchings to keep blacks
in their assigned second-place.

Now, one more killed-by-a-cop
story; still racist, cruel, gory.
And all over a $20. debt? We
can’t make sense of it yet.

published by illinoispoets.org

Mowing

You have to walk the property
to get a feel for the shape of it,
a trapezoid filled with dozens
of trees.  Along one sloping side
rises a low ridge.  A two-lane
macadam fronts the longest side.
A farm field edges the shortest.

I dress in old clothes to mow
because the Yazoo is dirty
and greasy, its red paint faded
and peeling, the deck piled
with musty dried grass cuttings.

Filling gas tanks that look like
two saddlebags, I check the oil.
Then swing a leg over the center
post as I start up the engine,
which turns over with a snort
of smoke and an uncertain shudder
before settling into a mechanical roar.

Engaging the blades, I mindfully
settle into the task ahead of me,
starting a circuit of the property that
follows the bordering perimeter.
At each tree encountered, I swing
around its circumference, outside
leg hung out for balance as the
zero-turning-radius mower
makes its tight circle.

Daring the length of the slope,
I lean into its height as I travel
 the angling hillside.  I follow
the edge of each mowed swath
pass-by-pass as I continue to circle
the perimeter, slowly arcing inward.
Pass after pass.  Round and round I
mow, letting my mind wander as I go.