When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the need for calm reason:
with mere moments to decide the course of events
I must steady my hand and stop the sweat
that has long since soaked my bandanna, from running down my face.
One serve means one chance to get it right:
indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and with ball in hand I impart my breath
to clean it of dust to lend it my spirit wind.
Palm up, my hand drops and rests near the tables edge,
ball playing solitaire in the bowl of my hand.
Body tenses as it comes to rest, and my breath exhales as a single soft stroke to settle the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low drive down the line dead ball flat steady and soft as she goes.
His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy as my muscles remember how his racket's rubber imparts its own special stamp, its own special spin.
I swing my racket low to the ground on my forehand side,
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
Racket connects with ball, sends it SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Prescience of Serve: Draft #2
When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
and your sweat abated.
You have mere moments to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right: indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and bringing the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath
to clean it of any dust and lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops palm up
ball playing solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs to calm the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line dead ball flat.
His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
My racket brought low
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
and your sweat abated.
You have mere moments to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right: indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent,
and bringing the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath
to clean it of any dust and lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops palm up
ball playing solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs to calm the nerves.
Gently, quickly I toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line dead ball flat.
His return this time a baby faced blooper to my forehand:
confidence weighs heavy to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
My racket brought low
my body crouches and motion springs praxis:
hand arcing up and through the ball
body turning in sync with left arm's new come flight.
SMASH cross table to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
And at points end at last he reflects on the the essential nature of foot work.
Prescience of Serve: Draft #1
When the ball is under your breath
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
your sweat must be abated.
You have mere moments to think
to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right because indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent
I bring the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath:
to clean it of any dust I lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops, and bumping the table
it settles just above and behind the line,
palm up ball resting solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, my exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs that calms the nerves.
I gently, quickly toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line
my anti delivering it dead ball flat.
Ball rebounds this time a baby faced blooper
to my forehand, and confidence now weighing heavy:
to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
I bring my racket low
my body crouches as I spring into motion.
My hand arcs up through the ball
as body turns with left arm's new come flight.
This ball driven hard a smash to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
At a points end, he reflects now on the the essential nature of foot work.
it is easy to underestimate the necessity for calm reason:
your hand must be held still
your sweat must be abated.
You have mere moments to think
to decide the course of events,
and only one chance to get it right because indecision makes meatballs
smashed back in your the face enough to leave a mark.
I walk to the table to face my opponent
I bring the ball up to my mouth
I impart my breath:
to clean it of any dust I lend it my spirit wind.
My hand drops, and bumping the table
it settles just above and behind the line,
palm up ball resting solitaire in the bowl that is my hand.
Body tenses then relaxes, my exhale a single soft stroke from my lungs that calms the nerves.
I gently, quickly toss the white celluloid six inches into the air,
racket smacks and sends it flying
a low line drive down the line
my anti delivering it dead ball flat.
Ball rebounds this time a baby faced blooper
to my forehand, and confidence now weighing heavy:
to remember his spin,
to remember how his rubber imparts its own special stamp.
I bring my racket low
my body crouches as I spring into motion.
My hand arcs up through the ball
as body turns with left arm's new come flight.
This ball driven hard a smash to his backhand
fast and low, spinning away to the far reaches of his flailing reach.
At a points end, he reflects now on the the essential nature of foot work.
Ramshack Trashcans
There- Among the tottering
ramshackle four-story brick row homes
built from misery and missed opportunities,
There- Trashcans overflow
amid downpours and indifference:
gutterjunk needles thick with disease
don't get caught out in the street!
wet walls of dry pastels
as poisoned blood
now collects in puddles.
In the dark and busted though thick glass
ground to clay choked like bone dry mud,
cleft knives a harbinger of centuries-long neglect
played out in front of your eyes.
A mural: cube men hungering for labor
swinging thick hammers one hundred pounds hard,
but dirt-caked the color of iron-red
cramped with living flesh amid the confusing and violent,
like a theater stage for all mankind.
And the children carry upon their shoulders
our dust wept sherry-caramel apple filling flavored lives.
ramshackle four-story brick row homes
built from misery and missed opportunities,
There- Trashcans overflow
amid downpours and indifference:
gutterjunk needles thick with disease
don't get caught out in the street!
wet walls of dry pastels
as poisoned blood
now collects in puddles.
In the dark and busted though thick glass
ground to clay choked like bone dry mud,
cleft knives a harbinger of centuries-long neglect
played out in front of your eyes.
A mural: cube men hungering for labor
swinging thick hammers one hundred pounds hard,
but dirt-caked the color of iron-red
cramped with living flesh amid the confusing and violent,
like a theater stage for all mankind.
And the children carry upon their shoulders
our dust wept sherry-caramel apple filling flavored lives.
A Soon Shattered Day
Across meads thick brown with tussocks
field-gray soldiers march,
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescent moons do.
Ahead distant smoke curls up and is caught in the light wind
in wisps it drifts away from homes
dug deep into warm hillsides.
But they soon follow paths
that tread through snow and past frozen ponds.
Cold white breath exhales across the calm meadow.
And as rough-hewn glass before it cracks
the still ice reflects the fading light
of this soon shattered day.
From my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk of death.
No one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits,
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...
And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats:
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantically whisper,
rugs made sure
closets and chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
casts into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in and the door collapses
dust scatters and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.
field-gray soldiers march,
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescent moons do.
Ahead distant smoke curls up and is caught in the light wind
in wisps it drifts away from homes
dug deep into warm hillsides.
But they soon follow paths
that tread through snow and past frozen ponds.
Cold white breath exhales across the calm meadow.
And as rough-hewn glass before it cracks
the still ice reflects the fading light
of this soon shattered day.
From my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk of death.
No one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits,
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...
And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats:
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantically whisper,
rugs made sure
closets and chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
casts into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in and the door collapses
dust scatters and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
A Soon Shattered Day
Across meads of thick brown tussocks
field-gray-clothed soldiers march
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescents do.
Ahead distant smoke curl in wisps away from
homes dug deep into warm hillsides.
Soon, they followed paths
that tread through snow and pass by half frozen ponds.
And as rough hewn glass before it cracks,
the still ice reflected the fading light of
the soon shattered day.
But from my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk-death,
no one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long:
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits lands on my groin
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...
And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats,
garments too soft for this day of cold steel hands.
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantic whispers, some will surrender,
some will become martyrs,
some elders wise but wait panic in their chests shallow breath,
rugs made sure or closets or chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
cast into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in as the door collapses,
dust scatters, and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.
field-gray-clothed soldiers march
ancient crosses wrapped around their arms,
sway in twos
to strike like razor blades
to swing as crescents do.
Ahead distant smoke curl in wisps away from
homes dug deep into warm hillsides.
Soon, they followed paths
that tread through snow and pass by half frozen ponds.
And as rough hewn glass before it cracks,
the still ice reflected the fading light of
the soon shattered day.
But from my spot no one can stop
me from hearing their in lockstep walk-death,
no one can stop me from hearing their safeties click off,
and though not knowing how long:
sweat clings to my clammy palms, drips from my armpits lands on my groin
sweat beads collect and slip down the small of my back.
Sweat collecting into puddles of blood and tears
as I watch...as I read...
And they come, snowflakes dampening dark coats,
garments too soft for this day of cold steel hands.
-There comes a loud knock on the door.
Children in closets frantic whispers, some will surrender,
some will become martyrs,
some elders wise but wait panic in their chests shallow breath,
rugs made sure or closets or chests shut tight.
-There comes another loud knock on the door.
Rust and paint crust
cast into the stale air with every shake of the door.
-There comes now a heavy THUD on the door.
Age-old hinges give in as the door collapses,
dust scatters, and cold air floods in:
a slow-motion shot at scenes end.
Reflections on Driving East: A Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon (Draft #3)
The Pacific Northwest falls away behind me.
A haze of dust masks distance
mountains turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
Every twist or curve of the road
bares the fruit of glimpses,
my past glides slides to my left
slides to my right:
Three Sisters all too soon fade from view
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.
The need for repair evident in
the presence of work crews and work trucks.
I smell tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
And I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved coast to coast
across a storm stricken sky
piercing this mighty body in two.
A haze of dust masks distance
mountains turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
Every twist or curve of the road
bares the fruit of glimpses,
my past glides slides to my left
slides to my right:
Three Sisters all too soon fade from view
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.
The need for repair evident in
the presence of work crews and work trucks.
I smell tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
And I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved coast to coast
across a storm stricken sky
piercing this mighty body in two.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Baked Dreams; part 1 (formerly This Ancient Thread; Strand 4, Part 1)
Evening was our oyster, the Juggling Suns
jamming square pegs in our circular holes:
at least that's how it felt, our heads compressed,
cracked and crushed.
Laughter, big thoughts, levitation,
and smooth anticipation driving nails: music
that drifts to eardrum and plays like harp strings gently tugged.
Open field tucked into trees and Old Main,
crisscross of pathways:
soft gray splotches of people
students sitting in circles casting soft shadows in the dark of night.
The World Turtle led the way:
beak pointed north, the universe at her beck and call.
Thus she led us into day turned gray then night,
but not lies led on high
enjoying our destinies as if fate itself could be contained in this uncontrollable world.
The World Turtle and us her disciples,
following as dogs wag tongues,
and the saliva they drip
evaporated but slowly in the humid State College air.
jamming square pegs in our circular holes:
at least that's how it felt, our heads compressed,
cracked and crushed.
Laughter, big thoughts, levitation,
and smooth anticipation driving nails: music
that drifts to eardrum and plays like harp strings gently tugged.
Open field tucked into trees and Old Main,
crisscross of pathways:
soft gray splotches of people
students sitting in circles casting soft shadows in the dark of night.
The World Turtle led the way:
beak pointed north, the universe at her beck and call.
Thus she led us into day turned gray then night,
but not lies led on high
enjoying our destinies as if fate itself could be contained in this uncontrollable world.
The World Turtle and us her disciples,
following as dogs wag tongues,
and the saliva they drip
evaporated but slowly in the humid State College air.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
