I was recently introduced to the poetic form called cherita, through Larry Kimmel's collection, "shards and dust: new and selected cherita" (bottle rockets press, c. 2014)
==
late august
a student runs to catch his bus
nearly knocks me down
pardon me, madam
he calls
over his shoulder
==
community acupuncture room
stretched out in reclining chairs
seven strangers
nobody
snores
today
==
i was a superstitious child
careful never to step
on a sidewalk crack
worried about
my mother's
back
==
taking myself out for thai lunch
the crying baby
the loud-talking man
but the soup is hot
and the music
mellow
==
you can't recall her name
she has short hair
you say
and she wanted me
to give you
her love
==
early morning laughter
waking from a dream
intending to remember the joke
alas —
it is instantly
forgotten
==
eat more kale
a bossy
bumper sticker
stopping beside the car
to stamp my feet
no! i won't!!
==
near the buddhist monastery
pausing to hug a woman
who i hope will become a friend
the air smells faintly
of rain
still an hour away
==
hurrying along
almost missing the word
on the sidewalk
serenity
written in pink chalk
okay — breathing in, breathing out
==
early morning walk
state street
past present future
stepping in someone else's footprints
wondering
who will step in mine
==
many many years ago
half-way between
the Bronx and Ithaca
a single tree
on a hill —
perhaps it is still there
==
two things grandpa taught me
how to multiply
by eight
the proper way to fold
the New York Times
when reading on the subway
==
what was mother thinking?
dressing the three of us alike —
her, my sister, me
on our way to Coney Island
a woman on the train asks
if we are triplets
==
Sunday nights
waiting for Bonanza
to start
we play Chinese checkers
and worry
about the week to come
==
yes there was favoritism
I am given the role of Maria —
The Sound of Music
off-key
but barely audible
small mercy
==
two days before camp
name labels arrive
for mother to iron on
a mistake —
Ira instead of Irene —
she assures me no one will notice
==
that time at the bungalow colony
the uncles smoking and cursing
fighting over the Monopoly board
next time
Aunt Anna says
you should play "Old Maid"
==
each year on his birthday
we give dad a packet
of Balkan Sobranie tobacco
then act shocked
when he lights up
his stinky pipe
==
WARNING!
a word I rebel
against
the way
Keep Out signs
make me inch closer
==
colorful chalk drawings
all summer long
they decorated this street
now that school is open
daisies, hearts, arrows
fade away
==
this morning my neighbor
also on
the park path
her strides
discouragingly longer
than my own
==
on my dear friend's front porch
a sign
in bold block letters
MEDITATE —
i long to stop and sit a while
but i keep on walking
==
I was eleven or twelve
26 hours on a train
from Manhattan to Florida
reading Little House on the Prairie
pretending to be riding
in a covered wagon
==
walking a zig-zag path
avoiding road construction
and smokers
every morning
a slightly altered journey
back to myself
==
remembering last spring
noisy rain fell on
the other side of this window
today a man
and woman flirt
(silently) in the sunshine
==
four streets over
a new building
going up
I match my breathing
to the steady rhythm
of the pile driver
