Trees in the Yard

I've always loved plants.
And I've always asked questions.
Behind our yard was a forest.
Or, it looked like a forest to me.

Pine trees so crowded
I couldn't see the road,
though I could hear cars
in nighttime's quiet.

Needles were always falling
into the yard, sometimes cones.
In summer, their pollen
painted everything yellow.

Why don't the pine needles fall
like the trees in the front?
Mom said they were just
different types of trees.

The front trees were in fact
three Bradford Pears.
Trees with leaves hanging
low enough to investigate.

They had beautiful, tiny,
detailed flowers I could study.
They smelled heartily.
I cherish that smell even now.

The pines were felled
to put in more houses.
The Bradfords died slowly;
the species is short-lived.

Every time I smell or see
those beautiful flowers
and when pollen coats cars,
childhood memories flow.



BlogHer Prompt: Things your childhood home is between
The front yard and the back yard :)

Three Years Between Us

It was my whole lifetime,

unimaginably long.

Then it was just enough 

to be amazingly cute,

my own real live babydoll.

For a while, it was quite

intolerably annoying.

You were always on my nerves.

A few years more brought

friendly cooperation

and increased peace.

For now, we still feel

the difference,

but only occasionally.

Over our lifetimes, 

the same three years will

become increasingly smaller.

Eventually they will be

unimaginably short.

I have a younger brother who was born on my third birthday. I've always loved him, but there were long stretches where I didn't like him one bit. Fortunately, we've grown closer over the years and even enjoy spending time with each other's friends.
BlogHer Prompt: talk about siblings

Birthday Cake

My brother was born 
on my third birthday.
We've gotten good 
at sharing the day.

We come up with great cake ideas.
My favorite design so far
really bothered our mom.

Anatomically correct human heart cake:
red velvet cake with black and red icing,
four lobes and a few arteries and veins.
Dad did a great sculpting job on that one.

We turned 22 and 19 that year.

I found the cake especially hilarious as I was in Comparative Vertebrate Anatomy at the time. Grossness warning: this class involved bringing a freeze-dried pig heart home over Thanksgiving break to study for my final exam. Mom found it repulsive, which of course made it more fun to have around. :-)

Free Write Friday: What's your most memorable birthday?

Carlos

The goal was to use the letter C for inspiration (via ABC Wednesday). While listing C words, a migrant's story started to form. I've been reading Sonia Novario's book Enrique's Journey. It details the struggles of a boy from Honduras attempting to reach his mother in North Carolina and what happens after.

I survived Chiapas, the beast.

An unlucky comrade was

cut off from the group.

Border police have corralled him

in confinement with other migrants.

I am crazy to attempt this

journey from central america

crossing Mexico

to the United States.

But, it is the only cure

for missing my mother,

who used to coddle

and cuddle me

when I was cute and small.

I hop on and off moving trains.

Churning wheels threaten to cut off

a foot, a leg, a life.

Men chase me.

I hide in a clump of bushes.

A church!

I burst in and

careen into a corner.

Churches often provide sanctuary.

It's cool in here.

A clergyman appears.

"Breathe easy.

I care for children of the train."

I notice others. 

For dinner, we consume

cucumbers and chimichangas.

I even get a cookie!

We console one other.

We cajole one other.

We cheer up for the safety

of resting in the church.

I cover up for sleep,

and dream of mami.

Thousands of children travel along the tops and sides of freight trains through Mexico. Children as young as seven jump on and off of the moving trains, trying to avoid immigration agents. Some states are generally friendly and the people are helpful to the migrants, like in Veracruz. Chiapas, the southern most state, is notoriously difficult to cross without deportation, and the people despise migrants. These children are typically trying to reach a parent in the US, most often a mother. Single-parent households appear more and more in Central America, and parents who cannot make enough at home leave for the US. They plan to stay 1, 2, or 3 years, but many end up staying for 10 years or more. Children who can barely remember their mother, or have only an idealized version of her, undertake deportation, gangs, rape, physical mutilation, starvation, and dehydration for days and sometimes months hopping trains in order to find mom and love.

Aug 7: Included in Poetry Pantry #61

'Translation'

Today's prompt from NaPoWriMo was to pick a poem in a language you don't know and 'translate' it. Look at the words and try to make some sense of them. A fun and interesting exercise. Used Poetry International Web to find a poem.



'Translation'

The habit is steady under a visit
but seek and fault, under water longing
the tank to swim further down
is altered hidden wedge: sameness

the glands from the brook. Our status gone wild
someone your betoken, gone ramming speed
within pasta, gone hook and not right.
Craziness and of stupidity from life and later

will is out to see, to oneself
four leaving all fat overgrown
sheaths sitting on my stool
and their heels going in circles.



'Vacant' - Esther Jansma, The Netherlands

De manier is steeds anders, een vuist
balt zich en valt, uit water lekt langzaam
de kanker van schimmels, maar daarna
is altijd hetzelfde weg: samenhang,

de glans van gebruik. Hier staat geen wand
zichzelf te betekenen, geen raam speelt
voor spiegel, geen hoek is nog recht.
Nutteloosheid is de schoonheid van verval en later

wil ik ook zo zijn, zo vanzelf
door leeftijd als gras overgroeid
scheef zitten in mijn stoel
en daar heel goed in zijn.


Translation:

The manner is always different, a hand makes
a fist and falls, the cancer of moulds seeps
slowly out from the water, but afterwards
it's always the same that's missing: cohesion,

the shine of use. Here stands no wall
meaning a wall, no window is playing
at being a mirror, no corner is still straight.
Uselessness is the beauty of decay, and later

I, too, want to be like that, so naturally
overgrown by age, like grass,
sitting crooked in my chair
and being very good at that.