Bourgeon

The only way to have hope—how can it be?—

is to walk into the streets not as a beggar,

not as one crushed to a shadow, holding

a cup, begging for bread or a place to stand,

but to walk like a man in a parade, pockets

full of candy to toss to children as you pass,

as if lit from within, as if joy were

a friend you can call on any time, even

days you’re too sad to dress

or untangle your hair.

Pull on

a bright shirt and walk out as if

heading to joy’s house for tea and a chat.

Joy may still turn you from her door that day,

but I know hope will catch up with you, hook

her arm through yours and match your stride

even if neither of you

can speak.

Naomi Thiers grew up in California and Pittsburgh, but her chosen home is Washington-DC/Northern Virginia. She is the author of three poetry collections: Only The Raw Hands Are Heaven (WWPH), In Yolo County, and She Was a Cathedral (both Finishing Line Press.) Her poems, fiction, and essays have been published in Virginia Quarterly Review, Poet Lore, Colorado Review, Grist, Sojourners, and other magazines. Former poetry editor of Phoebe, she works as an editor for Educational Leadership magazine and lives in a condo on the banks of Four Mile Run in Arlington, Virginia.

Linger

We could perch on the details

of this near end.  How I

have worn you

as my skin for decades,

let every sense curve

toward a blossom

or fruit of your choice.

Burning any fringe

or edge you don’t like,

I beg to fit in your chosen

mold, to slide like a wedge

of orange between your teeth.

Steps without you

are shards or ribbons,

weeds, cardboard boxes

thrown in my path.

And I have forgotten

the muscles used for lifting.

Originally published in Pamplemousse 2016 and forthcoming in Water Shedding from Finishing Line Press

Watching Laziness

Pablo Neruda says

high up in the pines

laziness appears naked.

So we go outside

to gawk, our hair

in oily strands needing

a wash, and wonder

how she climbed

to where she sways

in the wind.

When did she undress,

this arboreal

debutante of sloth?

Has she always been

without covering,

born high in the trees

to look down

as we plod along and fail

to hear the bristly

symphony of pine needles?

We would join her

if we could manage

the climb, or hang

safely once we arrived.

Instead we sit

watching her freedom,

humbled by the intensity

that true

laziness requires.

Originally published in The Potomac Review in 2010 and forthcoming in Water Shedding from Finishing Line Press

Beth Konkoski is a writer and high school English teacher living in Northern Virginia with her husband and two children.  Her work has been published in journals such as: The Potomac Review, Saranac Review, and Gargoyle. Her chapbook “Noticing the Splash” was published in 2010 by BoneWorld Press and a second chapbook, “Water Shedding,” is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Image: Pine Trees (Shōrin-zu byōbu) by Hasegawa Tohaku [public domain].

Lady Liberty Finds Sand Dollars in Coronado

I pay no attention to lovers twined

around each other like ropes on

sailboat masts.  My eyes avoid their

youth, fixed instead on

the afternoon horizon—the swath of

sand too wide at low tide. It covers

disks of purple buried under ripples of

ground-up diamonds and fool’s gold.

I thought they were nettles at first.

Those are the ones I step on at home.

But these are natural money, some the color of

blueberries, some sunbleached if they happen

to land past the water’s border. I leave

the ones still detained by waves

alone, hoping their leaf shaped hearts still

beat, and their fuzzy bellies will push them back out.

Others I collect, trying my best not to crush

them in my granite hand.  It does resemble gathering

fruit, where berries sharing a bush can be different

ages, different phases of ripe.  I toss a few, reject them to

the dunes for decay. Perhaps some

blue-eyed child will scoop them

up and see this treasure worthy

of his stolen home.

MY Middle Age in Ocean Beach

The revolution is still alive

And inspires people of all

Ages to let loose and dance

Because everyone else is

Letting their freak flag

Fly, and I may as well

Wave mine with youthful

Pride, for there is still

Time to celebrate the

Party of life.

–the typewriter troubadour

I’ve never surfed, but I’ve boogied

on both coasts and in places between and

beyond.  So, since the adorable troubadour has

given me permission to let the “freak flag

fly,” I’ll stand on the pier and watch wave riding stunts

below while someone blows bubbles over

these hippies like the troubadour spit

wisdom from his keys.  That’s how I know that

we’re all riding tides, doing that impossible thing of

taking flight and floating

simultaneously.

We don’t waste our time on

the mushy swell that spends strength we’ll need on

the paddle back. 

That’s how I know this Pisces isn’t just

a fish.  I am the sea.

When I rage, and froth and fume,

respect me from a distance, but please

don’t go away.  I need you there

to tell me I’m still beautiful, even

when I’m mad.  Because there will be

mornings when I’m glass reflecting

blue—fathoms to

the bottom where my thoughts are

conchs, sand dollars, starfish, unbroken and

waiting.  On balance, I give

life so much more than

I take away.

Image: CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=553056