Poetry of

 

         Closed Spaces   

Closed Spaces   

We both have death in common:
The speed of gravity met its twin--
that staunch bend of the mountain-- 
and gravitas propelled you forward
outside the car onto the songless stones.

Your head closed up.
Sightless spaces weighed
heavy on your eyes.
Your flesh sunk to crushed leaves. 
Your body lay coffined in
an intensive white room.

           Aware of nada
your white God shrinks    
                     to an idol of nothingness.

That wintry afternoon, I cross
that bridge where the road braves
upward, and the snow rests light
on its crest; where the eyes
follow closely the rising white line
that separates the empty spaces of the hill  
and hurls my memory into blankness.

My faint sight wakes up awake.
Your blue eyes open weak 
as weak as your deaf
ears so deaf that black-souled suits 
darken the medicinal light.
My eyes flood with brightness  
and  find an outlined door.  

Yours see years of empty spaces,
far from my quickening senses.
You lose the space between your head and hand.
And like a monkey, with a smile
and a cup, beg for forgiveness.

My eyes flood with brightnes
and find an outlined door.

Victims of Nam in My House

The  war didn’t mean too much for a while  
until the student Frank received his early                                   
number.    He did not care to lengthen 
the war or any war,  for that matter. 
 He had only two weeks to find a way
out.   He spoke to the college president,  
the pastor of his church, the head  of college
students, and finally to his folks----
to whom he confessed that he must          
live in Canada:   He did not put stock            
in war.  He could not suffer the sight of spilt    
blood, let alone share it.   So he arrives
soon to lunch with me and a Quaker couple 
who are against war, and he hopes
against the Nam war.   The husband does not speak. 
His wife broaches the subject:
“Frank can leave tonight.  Friends are driving North.
Take warm clothes.  Put them in shopping bags.”
 “Don’t  telephone  anyone,”  I say,
“I will call your family.”   Frank looks at the
husband:   “What do I do in Canada?”
“Keep warm and be a loyal citizen. “
“Lord,   have  mercy on  us  and  forgive  our
sins,” I murmur.  Without offense,  the wife
answers, Yes, the Lord does not suffer
to pursue the scent of war.

  

                            HIP BOOTS

My mother with relish relives that spring
Friday of fishing.  She dusts the picnic basket,
 packs my father’s ham biscuits—sliced-thin—
my deviled eggs,  two green and two Delicious
apples, three bottles of water, a handful
of Hershey bars,  and napkins.  She never
forgets sun hats, dry socks and shoes,  towels,  
changes of clothing and her needlepoint.

 My father doesn’t care to eat fish on Friday
or any other day, so we choose a shady
spot by the shore of the reservoir where
the stones end and the grass begins.  My father
unpacks his bamboo rod,  his  colorful winged lures,
 my earthworms, fiber glass rod and hip boots.

The dusty green boots feel warm at first,  then
heavy.  My father strides over water
to a rock farther out in the reservoir.
I follow,  jump for the rock, miss , and splash
in the deeper waters.  I grab for his long
bamboo rod, my boots full of water, my
hands holding tight as he slowly pulls me
to the rock.  My mother unpacks the basket:
we eat the deviled eggs.  As I dry off,
my father puts away the ham biscuits.
“Let’s wear hip boots when we fish for brook trout.”
“Slippery stones hide snakes,” my mother muses
as she knots an apple on her needlepoint.

Olga Kronmeyer is a native of the Catskill Mountains.   She is the editor of the   2007 Alchemist, an anthology of poems written by the members of the Alchemy Club, a local poetry group based in Grahamsville, N.Y.   She has published a few poems and has taught creative writing classes.