Chains clink
on bike path
as conversation wraps
from right-to-left
then left-to-right, resounding

“No, I mean…
I don’t think she meant
anything bad, by doing it”

The rubber crunch
pressing, to lift up
tiny sea shells ride
holding on, for dear life
scooped, in tread bucket
tumbled, on all sides
flung, and spun out
of this mechanical tide
washed up, as new gravel
readymade shoreline

I sit, centered
on park bench
just killing time

Their words fade
gears turning
tires, working away
“it just added to my embarrassment, really”
busy minds, still pedaling
on, through the haze
replaying cycles, too-heavy
to be carried - the weight
easied
with load-sharing
spinning discs and plates
rebalanced
and nudged, gently
as friends shift and sway
with eyes closed
I think I hear them turning a corner

Little legs, tink-tap
like a breeze, the open air
looking down, to meet eyes
bouncing feet, on thin hair
its small mouth, reaching out
to reclaim what it needs
water beads, I can’t see
but, still
know they’re there

The subtle act
of giving, and receiving
it’s as if, by not moving
I had given permission
for them to absorb me
on the surface, the space between

I wonder, if I put out
a little box, for coin
would someone drop one in, for me?

I wonder, if I stayed here
long enough
would someone ask
to take a seat, beside me
(leaving the requisite space, between)
would we sit, quietly
in peace, serene
or share secrets, wildly
spilling what we had meant to keep
to ourselves, forever
then pat hands, reassuringly
and part ways, even
“your secret's safe with me”

Some passerbys sing melodies
aerating little dreams
songs, we’ll never hear
played once, among the trees

Some people say that they’re listening
I wonder
if they feel me?
my little legs, brush-scatter
humming
at root-tip and leaf

Would they share little messages
back-and-forth, about me?
my doubts, spoken out loud
translated, and carried underground
life, summarized
and nestled tight, in tree ring
how short, our wave cycle
how long their stories must be…

Watching small things
climb, and sing
riding ferris wheels, high
for just a taste, at birds-eye
a perspective
we never keep

Back of the Page

Today’s poem was one I started writing back in June while sitting on a park bench, and knew I’d need to wait for it to call me back to finish.

It’s been almost a month since my last Post! I started my new job as a mail deliverer in my community, and it’s been an amazing experience. Now that I’m adjusted to my schedule, I will likely find a more regular publishing rhythm again. There will be plenty of writing inspired by my new job, too - I’m letting it settle first.

This poem came from a feeling of being stationary in nature. Letting the buzz of two friends deep in conversation pass me by, allowing the little bugs that crawl on you to do so, without constantly swatting them away. Getting over the hump of “wow, it’s sure been a long time sitting here…should I, you know, do something else?”

Once I reached and sat through the uncomfort of those milestones, my mind settled down a bit. I heard the next layer of sounds:

• the bike tires picking up sea shells and crunch-spinning them out into new gravel
• the wind on the little hairs on my forearm, and little buggy legs bouncing on them, too - looking for water or whatever it is they’re in search of

It started me down a path of wondering what trees think of us bouncing above their root systems. Or talking next to their leaves. Maybe I’m reading into it, but, what if they were just like me - taking notes of what was going on around them?

How long their stories must be…

Seeing the rise and fall of all sorts of creatures, like humans, come and go. Hearing the drama, and feeling our emotions, as we pass by…recording them in their rings.

What does that say about their perspective? And how can we start to hold more of this long-term, stationary perspective? We seem to be getting signals from our bodies and the earth that all this thrashing about may not be working for us, long-term.

Of course, there was some fantasy in my writing, as well. Like, what if someone sat down next to me and started divulging their life secrets to me - would I reciprocate? would I allow it as a listening ear? would I tell them this is too strange and get up to leave?

Who knows, but the other day, there was a man wandering in the park with a Didgeridoo tucked behind his back, nestled in the crook of his elbows. As we passed by, he gently unraveled the instrument, pointed the tip directly at us, and then down at the ground. He blew too medium-length bursts (what do you call these? 😅), wrapped it behind his back, and walked away. It sounds menacing when I write it, but it was surprisingly a very cleansing and peaceful energy. You never know who you’re going to meet in the park, I guess.

That’s the one benefit of not remaining stationary for too long - you can find excitement, and the unexpected. Although, sometimes, if you wait long enough on a park bench, it will come and find you.

🌳