And the Record Rings by Joey Ng

And the Record Rings by Joey Ng

                Gentle rains drift and the sky stays cloudy,

                The sun appears by chance, beaming proudly.

                In this fleeting moment of clarity

                The most mundane path is lit up anew.

                We meander down the red brick walkways

                As followers of our simple whims.

                Clad in rustic green tweed to face the breeze,

                The rhythmic clack of our soles on the stone

                Lay the foundation of this buoyant scene.

                At last we find a perfect place to rest,

                Under an impeccable willow tree

                With great sprawling branches and rich green leaves.

                Wafts of jasmine and honeysuckle float

                About, permeating the open air,

                Enchanting it with their demure pleasure.

                Settling in our blissful comfort,

                We watch the people go about their lives.

                A young girl of twenty walks by briskly

                In long determined strides as if tardy.

                What had belated her? A missed alarm?

                Perhaps an elusive pair of house keys,

                Taunting her in the most obvious place.

                And next, as she walks out in the distance,

                An older gentleman takes my focus.

                Weathered by age but lively in spirit,

                He strikes me as an artisan or chef;

                One who appreciates the fine details

                That may not command attention and awe.

                Instead, he discerns the underlying

                accords that deserve true adoration.

                He probably makes a great bruschetta.

                Suddenly my phone alarm starts blaring,

                Alerting me of due obligations.

                As I gather my possessions and leave,

                These musings fade in ephemeral smoke,

                Their stories now falling upon deaf ears.

                So many lives and solely one to live,

                Oh what opportunities fortune gives.

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And the Gauchos Sing    BY MIKE PUICAN

Catalpas blooming up and down Catalpa Street, car alarms blooming

up and down Waveland Avenue—an instant of nature without the narrative.

O face-in-your-morning-juice, swimmer-in-an-old-wool-suit,

we sit side by side on the steps smoking the same cigarette,

watching children who live alone, women married to the wrong men.  

Here is your little dog roaming the alley. What will he do for love this time?

The gauchos sing: “The silver lights of stars hurl themselves

against the open pampas of Clark Street” O tomato-in-a-woman’s-palm,

one millisecond following the next millisecond, “Heal thyself,”

the poem says, “Pick up your beggar’s mat and walk.”

You hurl yourself into traffic. You talk to cops and street thugs;

they smile at their smartphones.  They strut in the sun like jackals

after a kill. And the gauchos sing: “Everyone will finally leave you, fugitive.”

A cloud of pigeons cuts through the smog. Everyone will finally leave you.

When the bus comes we sing like sailors. A red sky presses you to its lips.

I tell you that everything has already been written. You say

on a long, difficult pilgrimage Basho wrote on his hat.

Source: Poetry (June 2012).