Beyond Nature-By Katie Hedgepeth

Going on a run at Summerlake Park,

Almost out of breath, sweat dripping down my

Face, so exhausted about to pass out.

Running as fast as I can towards the fresh

Scent, the scent tickling my nostrils as

I am breathing from the vigorous run.

 

The scent of fresh bloomed flowers that smell so

Fresh and fill up the air during summer.

It is a hot but windy day today.

Bright, ravishing flowers capture my

Attention, I stop to smell the roses.

 

Still dripping in sweat, I put my nose close

To the fresh glowing flower which takes my

Breathe away. The rose smelling like Bvlgari

Perfume, the elegant scent that is so

Familiar to me, the scent very

Potent and distinct as it fills the air.

 

Some People walking by the park with their

Dogs, while others stop to take a glance at

Their smart phones and don’t see the beauty that

Is in front of them, barely taking their eyes

Off  their phone, perhaps making a phone call.

As the birds chirp, and the lake continues

Flowing, I take one more breath before I

Stand up and decide to return to home.

Running home as quickly as possible,

The sun setting, while the sky slowly gets

Darker, the clouds slowly covering the

Sun, wind blowing in my face while running.

At last at home, where I smell the fresh scent

Of Bvlgari Perfume which fills my house.

 

 

 

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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.