NYC OPEN SPACE 143
It’s ironic, looking back,
that there were no safety bars
on any of the windows of
Parkchester’s MetLife buildings.
Restrictive covenants, yes.
But somehow my grandparents,
with their blend-in faces and
hardly traceable last name,
got a sixth-floor lease from the
insurance conglomerate.
Their windows looked out over
Metropolitan Oval,
a New York City green space
with ancient graves and benches
that served as an oasis
for the aged on their schlep
to Woolworth’s or the Finast,
gone now like the newsstand
where grandma bought the papers
every morning and her four
packs of Pall Mall coffin nails.
Crossword pencil in her hand,
cigs and coffee was breakfast
because, she said, she couldn’t
eat on an empty stomach.
Rob Friedman
HAWAI‘I VOLCANOES NATIONAL PARK
Not the parks of my mainland youth
with swings, slides and climbing kids,
this park born of fire, born of the sea
rises 13,680 feet from the water.
Not grounds for play,
to summit Kīlauea is to be with
elemental deities - wao akua -
a sacred place accessed only by those
with a clear goal, such as worship,
so I feel somewhat the intruder
climbing this active volcano
watched by Pelehonuamea
whose spiritual energy - mana - is powerful.
Her molten lava, creator of new land
for this malihini newcomer
brings me to my knees.
Lianna Wright
TRIOLET FOR L.S.
I have fallen asleep on a bench in the park.
Streetlights bordering like those in a queue
silent, deep green punctuated by a lone bark.
I have fallen asleep on a bench in the park.
while writing a sonnet as if I was Petrarch.
A poem for one I can barely say I knew
I have fallen asleep on a bench in the park,
allowing passing spirits to gently pass through.
Brandon Baum
IS THIS A DOG PARK?
I’ve come with my new rescue dog (I’m his fourth
home and he’s still officially a puppy, but big
enough for me to ride). I’m trying out my latest
rigging of harness, halter, collar, long-leash,
hoping for control when he sights prey
(that skittery gobbling of turkey moms & turklets)
on green-grass playing field and bits of lawn
around picnic tables) or another dog (mine
is reactive, likely to rear & plunge & almost knock
me over if another canine comes in view.
And there’s one now – a little yapper with its slow-
paced human – and now another dashing off-lead
to meet them, must be a dog-walk party. And
yet another... my dog at a distance is going wild.
I troubleshoot my rigging, try “heel!”
and “watch me!” but he’s all-eyes on the off-leash
pack of 3 humans & at least 4 dogs blocking
the path. This is an outskirts park,
service-club gift to the community. No signs
requiring “dogs on leash.” No “dog park” signs
either but, without rules or fences, that’s what it is
this very early summer Saturday morning
before the bludgeoning heat of the day.
Taylor Graham
ALA MOANA PARK
It’s big, but not huge like Central Park or Golden Gate Park,
Or even Balboa Park in old San Diego, housing the best zoo
In the world, where the animals aren’t just there to get ogled,
But to be nurtured, loved and rescued before they become extinct.
No, Ala Moana Park isn’t that big, but it has a massive footprint
And its own mana, its own sacred vocation. I left out the park’s
Middle name: Beach. Yes, the beach is part of the park, so maybe
Ala Moana Beach Park is even bigger than all the rest, since it has
An ocean attached. The surfers show up before the pink dawn and
Linger long after the catamarans catch the red sunset in their sails.
Families and children splash in the tide pools and wiggle their toes
In the golden sand. Sea turtles stick their noses out of the waves,
The golden plover, just arrived from the long, cold flight from Alaska,
Plants her feet first on the sparkling sands of Ala Moana Beach,
And a monk seal leaves the sea and settles in to give birth.
On the opposite side, next to the boulevard that carries the tourists
From the airport to Waikiki and Diamond Head,
There is a murky canal where old men sit with their fishing lines, and
Willows, filled with Java sparrows and mynahs, dip their long, leafy
Fingers into the dark water as a pair of ducks
Floats by and white plumeria blossoms fall all year long.
But the park’s glorious crown is in its center, the generous space where
The ancient Banyan tree forms its own mandala, sending out
Its long root tendrils like a benevolent army of octopus,
Beckoning in the spirit of aloha—welcoming the young homeless
Woman who pulls a silk scarf from her tote bag,
Wraps it around her shoulders and lies down in darkness, comforted,
Safe in the Banyan’s embrace. On Sunday mornings, the drum circle
Surrounds the Banyan. Seated among the gnarly roots, they send
Their sounds on old instruments out over the waves, into the kind sky,
Past the canal and up the mountain where the ancient chiefs are buried.
On another morning, a family boards a bus at the homestead road, rides
Into town and stops at the park. They cross the boulevard to Foodland, buy
Fresh ahi poke and Spam musubi, a picnic lunch for the oldest boy’s
Birthday. They stretch out around the Banyan, settle among the roots.
Auntie plays her ukulele, and Uncle, who still remembers the old chants,
Sings a blessing for the boy. The park and the Banyan have done their work.
Rose Anna Higashi
CENTRAL PARK PATHWAYS
Observe Cleopatra’s Needle in Greywacke Knoll
as the red granite obelisk spirals into heaven,
flaunting Egyptian hieroglyphics; come meet me
MaryJane on East Side & 75th street, immerse yourself
on a topside rabbit hole to Alice in Wonderland’s
mushroom lounges immortalized in bronze. Frolicking
yet frozen with the Mad Hatter, Dormouse, and Cheshire Cat
as Dina swipes at the White Rabbit enticing Alice
to drink potions distilled at the Conservatory Waters.
Having drunk the elixir of a former Seneca Village
like Lewis Carroll’s protagonist, our minds expand
flag down a horse drawn carriage, check off
the unforgettable experience from our bucket list;
passing last leg Balto, MJ and I shake our heads and begin
to question accepted folklore about the Siberian sled dog
memorial locked in space near the East Willowdale
Arch, overshadowing Togo—Nome’s true heroic husky
that raced the furthest to bring Alaskan’s diphtheria serum.
Let’s rest at Bathsheba’s Fountain, harness passion as we
gaze into each other’s eyes, imagining the inclusive
artisan’s depth of perception who’d cast our likeness
hand in hand, lips touching lips, pulse matching pulse
mastering love’s messages that float on southwest winds
like notes gracing nature as if sung by John Lennon
commemorating a day unparalleled soaking in sights,
delighting in sounds from every foot of our outdoor museum
riding into the sunset upon C. P’s. handcrafted carousel.
Sterling Warner
COMMISH
56 parks, spread across 1,000 acres
Ballfields & courts, playgrounds & swimming pools
Rec. Centers, skating rinks, two golf courses and a Zoo
All mine to manage and protect — at 32
Hot summer days, the playgrounds swarm with children
Teens shoot hoops on blacktop courts nearby
Across the park, the swimming pools
Awash with bodies, looking to escape a blazing sun
Downtown, the big band sounds of Stan Colella
Drift from a mobile stage, set up beside a water fountain
Food carts feed the crowd of lunchtime office workers
Perched on low stone walls and wooden benches
On the other side of town, a couple holding hands in the gazebo
On the shore of Hiawatha lake, plans their wedding
A woman walks her dog along a pebbled, tree-lined path
Old men play chess and talk about the past
Some days, it feels like I’m the captain of a cruise ship
Director of a theme park, a four star restaurant’s maître d’
On the surface, things look perfect — at least we strive
For them to be something the Parks Department can be proud of
Behind the scenes, the operation seems less glamorous
We cut the grass, pick up the trash, plant flowers and prune trees
We mark the playing fields, pump out the swimming pools
Patch, repaint, repair — or, when we can, renew, replace
And, then, there are the incidents — some of which I’d soon regret
The city’s giant Christmas tree, damaged during installation
Two yearling wolves escape the zoo, some want the cops to shoot them
A drunk goes swimming in the lake, gets tangled in some weeds and drowns
Imperfect as they are, these parks are priceless — treasure everyone can share
A place where one can breath clean air, let off steam, get in shape or just relax
Respite from the chaos and cacophony of an artificial, concrete world beyond
And, for a time, these were my charge, my wards, my precious foster children
Frank Kelly
THE PARK
“Can we go to the park?” we shout as we
head for the door. We hear our mother’s voice
from the kitchen, and taking it for a yes
we burst out the front screen door, letting
it bang behind us, hurl down the steps of
the concrete porch, dash over the front yard,
look both ways, and cross the street to the dirt
path under the tall oak and hickory trees.
We reach the pile of rocks a short way in,
then skip over the ditch on a rock bridge
and dance among the leaf litter, crunching
acorns as we go, tiptoe by the caretaker’s
house, said to be haunted, run past the ball
field and tennis courts and down the narrow
road that circles through the park to the swings
and seesaws and slides, our destination.
“Stop!” my sister yells at me as I climb
up to the top of the big slide, which shakes
a little as I go up, but I am set
on making it this time, and I do, my
hands gripping the rails, cold in the fall air,
then step carefully onto the metal
and sit down and look around from on high,
breathing heavily, the ground far below.
Then I shove off, put my hands in my lap
and swoosh to the ground, landing with a plop
in the dirt, my heart drumming, and I laugh
as I get up and race over to the swings,
seesaws, and the merry-go-round, yelling
at my sister to come and push me round
and round, reveling in the Sunday quiet,
ignorant of the shortness of such days.
Rob Miller
RELAX LET'S DO IT
It wasn’t a long walk through the park,
so I thought my town trilby
would do as a sun hat
to shield me from the heat
and my new boots would cope
with the untrodden rough ground.
Maybe
we’d go along the river
where children were splashing,
then across the field full of daisies
and over the stile on to the fells.
I could see some tiny figures
of well practiced walkers
already up there.
It looked a long way now.
Maybe
we should have set out earlier.
Maybe
I should have worn my boots in
for a little longer,
they already felt
like they were
rubbing holes
in my feet.
And I was already overheating
in spite of my hat.
Maybe
I should abandon my plan
for today
and sit in that patch of shade
and show those children how
to make daisy chains.
Yes,
that’s a good idea,
relax,
let’s do it!
Lynn White
WALKS WITH COPPER
One day I'll remember these simple moments
You, I and the dog - How we wanted to meander
but the dog and his nose walked swiftly and with purpose
Down the old, pebbled steps -long, wide and awkward
Causing us to take one giant step for each one
While the dog showed off his tight-rope walking skills
below the iron railing balancing upon a curved cement wall
that declined gently down into the cool green park
How we loved the old black lampposts lining the way
and how it saddened me to see any marred by graffiti
before I was buoyed by the new playground in progress
awaiting its future generations both young and old
And farther along- the ball fields
and the sounds that carried up to our apartment
telling us another spring had somehow arrived
And finally how we'd come to the large open field
where sunbathers positioned and repositioned
like synchronized swimmers
Where parents watched toddlers pick dandelions
and older children played catch and frisbee
And dogs ran freely - singly, partnered or within small impromptu herds
Even our boy paused to watch before returning to his happy pace
nose to the pale gray pavement, tail up and moving side to side
like a Geiger counter seeking the next delicious nugget of scent
Until we'd gone one end to the other and then made our way back
Along a path of broken hexagonal pavers- a mosaic of childhood memories
and slatted wooden benches- installations for rest and thought
And we three - passers-through this time and place
returning home
Terri J. Guttilla
