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| Kristen D. Scott |
Lovers and Pines
Changing winds move through pines, growing in rock-strewn
cliffs near the Aegean Sea. Everything changes here, but these pines
are old friends, encircling lifetimes.
We embrace hands, not wanting to admit that we are getting older.
What couples will sit here, sharing coffee, winks, and lovers’ gests
after we are gone?
Will they remember how deeply we loved beneath happy canopies
of branches? These verdant grandfathers and grandmothers who keep
secrets of the world.
They have kept us along with the seasons. Cycles of warmth and chill,
little bees with queens and drones who sting those coming near.
But we do not frighten. They relax, sing us surahs,
then buzz like barefoot toddlers leaping in summer clover
We want the world to know that we were here,
below bark and bough, smiling, planning our future among
Turkish coffee grounds, teas, and cappuccinos.
You chuckle when I place my foot between your thighs,
my red toes smooth wrinkles in your jeans, wandering further,
The bees go crazy!
pines hide in the setting sun, just for a while, letting us have our fun,
whispers… hums,
maybe uttered by those before –
couples planning under parasols of shade
with sweet nesting sun,
a voyeur breathing between unfastened pants and pines.
Zelda, I understand
(for Zafer)
Geese migrating south,
I think this washing
the broad V of his back
soap slipping
south,
down the bend
to stanchion thighs
Zelda Fitzgerald once said
of F. Scott that she wanted
him to wear her,” like a watch-
charm, or a buttonhole bouquet,”
Maybe it’s strange that I
understand
her bipolar mind? That
insurmountable longing to plunge
into another, uninhibited, unafraid
I smell the faintness of magnolias, thinking
of her, this beautiful peril of a woman
submerged completely in her lover
I, too, am that woman, dear Zelda
Even in Anatolia, Montgomery is not
far away.
The Magnolias again...
My fingers find his fine,
smooth face,
I give him a soapy
lemongrass
kiss, this
more humid than the steam –
flitting feathers
against beaded skin,
Weeping Willow in the breeze
of him.
I want him to wear me too
Darling Zelda.
This, I understand.
Understand,
your marvelous, licentious mind.
Diving in Antalya
(for Zafer)
This is the way we break bread
barefoot, beneath rising afternoon.
heat tans the tors of your chest,
bakes salt into my damp hair
flirting, I take your hand, dive
for me, baby.
watching you exposes
me, white skin, pink flush
breasts betraying
my contemplations
Your wave calls from a distance
there is no one, only you
formed from fine rock and olive groves
shoulders of sunrise
my breathing, days of blaze
we understand movement,
like sea twills with foam
you spring, jutting like a jetty
precision, no splash
fish fan around, impressed
I, among double chins of old lusty men
and 20-somethings swagger
yearn for you
underneath an instant of shade
Nirvana
(for Zafer)
They chased the sun in December's early fall,
moved in and out of a two-thousand-year-old
cobbled-stone and marbled streets, burnished
gold as fields of October's ripe maze.
Even through the bazaar of chattering crowds,
street-side loiters, marina yachts, and seaside
merry, they heard only one another.
The faintest breath of fish, spider, and honeybee.
And so they drove. Her, with cream hands tucked
inside the warmth of his jeans. He, hands to Harley
bars, careful not to let the wind chill the snow of her skin.
They dipped in and out of shadow, light, pavement,
and pines, bending into moment, somewhere between
easy and nirvana,
setting into one another with the disappearing sun.
Yet, rising with the moon's imperial crest
Pancho and My Father Take a Siesta
under a lone surviving Elm and newly sown sweet
corn, Pancho rests, speaking broken Española
the southern Colorado field, his barrio.
Pancho calls my father Ye’s instead of Les.
like tortilla or llama. My dad doesn’t seem to mind,
even though he complains.
Pancho tosses a stray mutt a spicy chicharrón
thrown from a brown paper bag, his belly shakes
when the dog howls for more. “Ye’s la mirada” my dad nods
His head pulls his Allis-Chalmers cap over his big blues,
wanting to nap, but grins.
Pancho’s cousin says he is illegal, he sends money
to his wife, Theresa, in Old Mexico, and has one son
who farms in Fresno. Later, Dad says, “Pancho’s gone
back to Chihuahua,” “lazy bastard.”A bit of worry
deepens his eyes. My brother says,
“Pancho’s been deported,” “deportado.”
Since Pancho’s capture, we play outside in the evenings
My mother throws a potato at my dad, grazing his bald head.
“You’re smoking too much; the kids cannot breathe.”
My father tells her, “Pancho’s son Pedro
left Mexico because the water and air are dirty.”
My mom does not hear him; he plants a big one on her
and calls her “hot-lips,” labios calientes. My mom comes up for air,
says, he will die of cancer if he doesn’t stop smoking. 15 years later, he does.
My father again takes his siesta, tosses hot Vienna sausages to the stray
he now calls “Cisco.” There are no homemade chicharron. Cisco whines.
Together, they stretch under the Elm with Pancho
lost – my father and the stray, both American mutts, close their eyes
under the resting afternoon las sombra.
Kristen D. Scott (USA) – Former Editor in Chief of KNOT
Kristen D. Scott is a seven-time nominee of the Pushcart Prize in poetry for work from 2022 and six poems from her 2014 collection Opiate. She is an award-winning essayist for her work on Federico Garcia Lorca and his books the Divan del Tamarit, Poet of the Deep Song, and essay, “The Duende.” She has published in several anthologies, newspapers, and ezines, including two front covers from Nacional Newspaper in Albania, Atunis Journal, the San Diego Poetry Annuals, Nomos Review, Perigee, and Alesbuyia. She has published two poetry collections from Garden Oak Press, Liaisons (2012) and Opiate (2014). She has been translated into Arabic, Albanian, Türçe, French, and Italian. Scott is currently the Editor-In-Chief, founder, and web designer of KNOT Magazine, she is originally American, but has lived in Turkiye for several years.'
