The Grasses' Promenade

Brown winter grasses
Forced down to the ground
Forced to behave like the
Frantic water flowing over it
Towards ever lower places
Ever larger lakes
Never large enough 'til
It formed the grand consciousness
Of all water

The grasses hurried as the water
To protect the ground and remain
There after in the disguise of water
Brown dry currents of grass
Protecting what it could
All else yielded and released
Leaving tree roots suspended in air
Over raw river banks ensnared

After having no choice but to serve
Land and acquiescing to the flood
The grasses regained power and rose
Upright off the ground through
Their horizontal remains
Towards the sun refrained
Grasses . . . the proud
Waving mane of the plains
Allowed to brush the belly of deer
Offering to hide one insect from the next
Green renewal and healing
To regions and fields
Creek banks and meadows
Proudly a-wave
The grasses' promenade*.

-Kelly Voelker

*promenade -  a public walk, typically one along a waterfront at a resort
- a leisurely walk, or sometimes a ride or drive, taken in a public place so as to meet or be seen by others.
- (in country dancing) a movement in which couples follow one another in a given direction, each couple having both hands joined

Uncomfortable Lanyards

Time changes avenues
To sure and known things
Travelers and families
All changing with age
Relationships, friendships
Acquaintances too
Can become islands
In view but not touched
Awakening truths about
Routine and myths
Change seems appropriate
Yet cruel in its methods
I wonder why memories
Are a feature still standard
When often they picture
Uncomfortable lanyards*
To maintain or seek out
Or keep within range
When horizons hold
Sunshine and not so much rain.

-Kelly Voelker

*lanyard - late Middle English lanyer, in the general sense ‘a short length of rope for securing something’, from Old French laniere . 

Cry Out the Despair

I don't want to be here
A day or a year
I don't want to stay here
Oh dear oh dear
I want my old landscape
I want my old friends
Some day I will return there
To the open high desert
Alone in the wind
To cry out the despair of
This region, this climate
The disappearance of joy
I want to break out of this
Jail of my own restoring.

-Kelly Voelker

Frontier Angels

Like frontier angels
We floated with few words
Down the stairs
Through the doorways
Stepping silently
On socked feet
In the farmhouse
Of the Great Plains
Nestled next to the creek
For guidance and play

Like frontier angels
Our flannel nightgowns
Billowed with the heat
Of the giant oil furnace
Heating our bones
Directly and deep
During the dark
Of bedtime hours and
Before the dawns bright
We connected together
As children of Light.

-Kelly Voelker

NOTE: I wrote this about my Mom and I, in our flannel nightgowns, taking a moment to enjoy the comfort of hearth and home amid harsh winters in the Midwest.  During these moments, we weren't Mother and Daughter, we were just two souls connecting in silence, twice a day, in the same spot to recharge for the next 12 hours.

My Cloverleaf

Three days watching from my room on the third floor, I look at the cloverleaf's revolving pace. Each truck ticking by, engine's compression breaking in the sub-zero temperatures. Every driver of these ever-revolving trucks is a master driver. Each driver is more capable than most people at navigating weather and hypnotic, repetitive sequencing along the linear route. Each driver is driven as he drives, to meet the next tick on the click of larger ticks on the clock of commerce. How many of these master drivers exist, when so prevalent as this just on my cloverleaf?

Three days watching from my room on the third floor, I look at the Wendy's across the street on one petal of my cloverleaf. Is it just another modern roach motel poisoning time-crunched, value-conscious travelers? I realized after going there myself, that it is managed by a wonderful and capable person; responsible day in, day out, for staffing as well as making sure the food is hot and satisfying. This person is responsible for the facility itself functioning perfectly for restrooms and seating. It's an indoor travel park for the pausing traveler.

Three days watching from my room on the third floor, I see countless semi-trucks parked as their drivers sleep, and yet others are chatting with the 24 hour night manager of my hotel. Is she happy for the company? It matters not, for as a bartender, it is her job to entertain and accommodate those who need a place to rest, or someone who just wants to stand and visit awhile after sitting and being alone for hours on end.

This is just my cloverleaf. How many others as you replicate each across the United States? I will not think of fast food restaurants as roach motels but now, but as efficient ships with their own captains and crews, serving the public at all hours, sleeping, eating, and then doing it again and again. They meet the public's needs on a daily basis without fail, and if they fail, someone else must meet the need. Are their needs being met on this timeless extent?

-Kelly Voelker

cloverleaf - a junction of roads intersecting at different levels with connecting sections forming the pattern of a four-leaf clover. (North American)

extent - the degree to which something has spread; the size or scale of something.

Code of Tiny Details

My mind open wide
My eyes scoop up
The vast prairie landscape
Mile after mile
Yielding tiny details
Huge subtle patterns emerge
The local spoonbill scoops
Large amounts of water
On the move
To yield tiny zooplankton
From which to nourish himself
To survive longer than other fish
From what is written
In the code of the tiny details.

-Kelly Voelker

What Do I Sound Like Inside Your Mind?

For those who don't know me
When reading my poems
What do I sound like?
In your mind on your own
You must make up a sound
As you're reading the lines
Fashioning an image of
What someone like me
Would sound like if fluent
And speaking to thee
I never read aloud my own poems
It feels unnecessarily naked
Like my voice cannot own
The sentiments shared here
From an ancient wise soul
Sarcastic about society's
Strongholds and norms
Yet hopelessly loving
Trace sentiments hidden
In mundane experience
Each horse had been ridden
Each path had been trod
A great depth of experience
Eager to respond
A witness and sympathizer
From the mysterious beyond.

-Kelly Voelker

When I Finally Relaxed

When I finally relaxed
My body had changed
Not holding my breath
Not being so vain
When I finally relaxed
My hair had extended
Full of shine with no style
As genetics intended
When I finally relaxed
I expanded inside
Blanketing feelings
Evicting my pride.

-Kelly Voelker

The Thrill of Spill

Once my bucket was finally full
I gushed and overflowed
Onto the page and
Onto everyone in range

Then I am once again
A little less than full
Still once again

Sorry for spilling
Some people
Don't like to get wet
Only when they are
Expecting it

-Kelly Write Away

Feelings Blend

Life slowly rolls out details for us
Making the complexities simple
Our perspectives change slowly
This causes disorientation
When attempting to revisit
Old places and people we knew
Our memories inaccurate and few
Unlikely people move into iconic positions
Iconic people move into helpless positions
Our peers of yesterday are leaders of today
Yet in their faces is seen
The person they were as we
Realize what was can last
Even as perspectives mask
The essence of people now and then
Is a beautifully witnessed feelings blend.

-Kelly Voelker

Treading Time

Treading water seems to imply walking on it.
I'm treading time
Many days I feel I have already dialed it
Forward and back
But this time, this place I'm treading
Must be important
A chapter that is not understood
A few words not noticed
My character's entire reason
For being part of the plot
Instead of just mentioned by name
The scenery keeps changing
But I'm still here marking the days
Treading the time
No one can guess the outcome
They soldier on as if they know
Their images seem to sharpen with age
As mine fades ever more quickly
Maybe it is tiring to keep turning back the wheel
Of a vessel which is being pulled hard the other way
Resistance only exists as my own pondering
Questions within questions
Where everything seems certain
Except for what I'm doing here.

Changing Prognosis and Time

The vapor of consciousness
A heavy cloud in the valleys
Waits as it processes
For as long as it takes
When the sun deems* right
In all manor of all kinds of ways
It lifts the damp vapor
With all it has processed
Up gradual or swift
To lighter and higher
Eventually drifting
Processing in
Sunshine and wind
Down again cometh
As rain to the grid
Forever changing
Prognosis and time
Nourishing life
While removing unkind.

-Kelly Voelker


*deem - regard or consider in a specified way