Driven DRAFT

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DRIVEN

His foot scuffs along the browning grass. Then the other.  Looking down at the path his feet make. Glancing up at the figures moving in the kitchen.-- one way and another.  And he moves with their rhythm one way and another, back and forth on the arbor swing. Leaves have dropped off, swept away. The grape vines enclose him with their dormancy.   Slowly gaining height and speed, he leans into it. Around him up and down one way and another he drifts through the trees encircling  and invited promising him to adventure .  He serpented out on a limb watching the comings and goings below, fantasies of hanging down and wrapping around his brother's neck. Pull him up here to play.  He can be a lizard. 

To go over the wall was ‘VERBOTEN.’ So much the better, why should mama need to know where he was all the time. Ridiculous idea. I don’t know where she is all the time.  They were always going down a deer path then to where their dogs' tracked trapped  animals. If the animal was alive they had to take turns killing it and then they would bury it.  Make a cross with a name for the supposed deceased, dig it into the mound which is much longer than the squirrel or weasel.  Sometimes they told visiting cousins that there were bodies buried in the woods, take them down there.  Seeing the graves, the little girls- breaking out of frozen shock-stumbled and fell to get away from this scary place faster than they could..  E and G laughed til they fell down.  They kicked each other for their ingenuity, hysterically tussling with laughter that just hung around.  What a great time.   

From a barely visible roof window, shape shifting, he watched the boy like a lizard or a serpent sliding forward to the edges. A wind picks up.Quickly bend the leaves and turning over anything on the lawn. The boy felt the wave of energy that birds use for flight.  Swaying and bending deeper and more quickly, he felt lighter and lighter as he fantasied about the buoyancy of floating away in a spiral cloud.  During his reverie, all became noise and wind  and speed of a huge machines enveloping him. He reached out his arms in a split second to catch his small fingers on it and be dragged along skyward.

Finiding himself by the gravel drive, he wasn’t sure where to go: to the kitchen, his room, not being sure he stood swayings.  He sees mama coming out of the        kitchen door. .  Hands on hips, apron smeared by her just wiping her hands.  Too much smoke, then firecrackers everywhere between them.  The explosions. Too much smoke to see mama.  Guns. They all have guns with spears. Shoved at him with a helmet slammed on his head.  Out of the smoke he walks forward seeing as he mother comes running to save him. Her hands now begging and beseeching not to shot.  She is right in line of fire.  She shakes her head no.


All he knew was that Mama carried him into the kitchen..  G usually loved knowing there was a posse after him, like a real bandit or better, a pirate.  A lost and found game from morning to night delighted G to no end.  Usually, he could be sitting right with them but he was insistently thinking of what pranks he could pull on whom.  This was not the usual excitement craved.  He must have been dreaming longer than he realized. Turning deeply into his mother's arms, he heaved big quakes of tears and fear.  She pressed her love to him, stroking his hair.  Its ok mama's here. He wants to say. Just no way. Slumps and slips to the floor.   .



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Possibly  Once Grace the Puce Sofa

There was a time

Just when was it

And why was it a time

Well you know

This change it

Was before that

That’s when it was

The moment before this

Which that will

Become in the next

When was that time

When whens kept

Changing to new whens

Whirling spiraling

No central control

Whens traveling

Along an unseen path

So many whens

That are precise and absolute

Divergences

Emergences

Emergency whens

Those woven moments

Grace dissolves them

Grace takes

Like rulers on back of hands

Or hairbrushes

Throwing flying

Across moments

Then it all becomes

Moments of frightening Grace

do unto other whens

and other whens will do unto you

Moments filled with whens

These and those whens

In a karma coated mirror

Showing then now when

figure out Right acting

With out

Knowing how

Praise the Path

Grace is the Path

It is the only

Sense I can

Make of whens was

That time when whens kept

The Grace of the possibly once puce sofa

Pleasing so many whens

Ago we follow

The Grace-filled couch’s

Path

Carolyne Chandler-Trouusdell Krull wants to thank all the poets she so derivatively played with in the above.  Let's do it anytime .  I slide down your rainspout and climb up your apple tree anytime.