Three Poems by Mary Anna Kruch

 

John Lennon - Imagine - 1971

A Doorway

 

It’s as though someone flipped the switch

from an ocean of greed and darkness

to a scene of vivid, velvety lawns

that clasp tightly to junipers

and welcome wild mustard,

which reaches toward a shore

ripe with volcanic rock

that wades out quietly, at first

invites water to bathe beaches

in foamy sea,

then offers calm, even heartbeats

as the surf rushes in and out --

a metered poetry

that holds distant hills in place,

spaced out for miles

and backlit with a rosy- red horizon

streaked with gold:

obliges swollen eyes

to enfold, recall, write

of gentler, more tender times. 

 

 

                       To My Brother, John 

 

I drove by our old house in Detroit

beside your absence, recalling fun rides

to school in your stinky, rusty, red, rear-engine Corvair.

 

How did you get three or four greaser friends,

all sporting smelly colognes, into that car with me?

Bold British Sterling and aromatic Brut were “shared,”

 

along with STP motor oil that seeped in

less noticeable by third hour, except in my hair,

                        but better than walking on the main drag, getting honked at

                       

                        by your greaser friends, hanging out windows

                        until senior year, when you drove only senior girlfriends.

                        Apparently I wasn’t good enough for your fire engine red, little GTO. 

 

 

Lockdown and Lennon

Capitol Building, Lansing, MI, March 23, 2020     

 

The sky has gone indigo and

birds have long stilled their songs;

under the darkening sky, stars wink out.

Perhaps the birds and sky

are also laying low,

trying to expunge the memory

of that angry mob that stormed

the Capitol today, guns drawn,

protesting lockdown,

believing lies spread by an Orangeman,

who says the pandemic is fake news.

Horns honking, they

clogged Michigan Avenue,

blocked hospital entrances,

yelled obscenities about the governor.

All of it scared the bejesus out of me.

 

Now, six years past crazy,

I’m sitting on my deck

and hear gunshots.

Kids taking target practice?

More likely high on the power

of frightening neighbors.

I fear the Capitol crazies of old

                             and others with a similar mindset

stand as role models for them,

who should be shooting hoops,

not their father’s .45s.

What is this twisted power that comes

that comes with holding a gun?

Happiness in NOT a warm gun.     

 

I wanted to, even then,

drive to Canada, get out

of this country gone bonkers,

but instead stepped inside

for the silence and my husband,

who had lit a candle

and held out a tall glass of wine to me.

We turned up the stereo

and listened to Lennon

asking us to imagine

and give peace a chance

the rest of the evening.

Mary Anna Kruch is a career educator who has taught students in middle school and universities.. A writer and photographer, her works reflect the natural world, family, her Italian ancestry, and mental illness. She has three poetry collections published, and her writing and photos appear in in state, national, and international journals. Nominated recently for a Pushcart Award and a Best of the Net.