Karina Klesko: I have been a writer all my life. I began by writing Sunday school plans and children's books. For the past ten years I have been concentrating on eastern poetry. I was the Deputy-Editor-In-Chief of WHCReview, and Director of the WHCpoetrybridge. I am the publisher and editor of Sketchbook. I enjoy collaborative work. My work has been published in many magazines, journals in many countries. I established the OutlawPoets in 2004, a group for eastern and western poets to work together. Presently I am writing free verse to some extent and I am involved in three projects: the little black book of frac/tured poetry, a Love Anthology, and the Sketchbook. On the lighter side ...I am a shoe artist!

the American flag
homesteading in cajun country
a little blue heron

Wind Through Tupelo Leaves

Outside my window
grackles squawk and call
all day long from tree to tree.



He comes silently in the afternoon
on a bus from Georgia
his bags neatly set
on the front porch.

The stranger before me
sits at my table, telling me
he is through with drugs
through with drink.

I watch his animated movements
the gestures of his hands
the back and forth swing
of his head, as his eyes search—
I hardly hear what he says

I grind coffee beans
and listen to the wind
through tupelo leaves

We talk about scriptures
and the garden of Eden

Sunset stripes the fig leaves
and it is not hard to see
that it was possible
these huge leafy greens
could be used for a covering
of sin, in the sweetness
of its fruit, so close
to the ground, its trunk
snaking in strange
twists and jagged turns

He sits in a ladder-back rocker
on the front porch
and chain smokes
a new cloud in graying twilight

The dials on the washer changed
the toaster setting also changed
coffee reset from robust
to light/mellow
the shower head pulses
a harsher rain

He sits on my chair
at the table and uses my mug.
He asks for my cornbread
after he finishes his own

He hums a strange song
and talks of nonsensical things,
of building a houseboat
and living on my pond

and the cow jumps
over the moon.

As the week moves on
his words more slurred
he becomes more and more
mechanical and tells me
he needs to go to the park
and sit in town for a while

I have acres of land
and wonder what the difference
would be from here to there

He only seems to sleep
eat and smoke and smoke
says he is not cut out
for physical labor
and needs to be on his way

to go into the city
where he can find some peace
and be with civilization
his eyes darting back and forth
his tongue spraying spittle

He leaves on the bus
and tells me to pray for him—
this stranger,
this brother of mine

 

 

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