By Craig Kirchner
Being raised had become foreign, not real,
not mine, no growth, someone else’s field.
I had become a weed, in need of a modest, naïve
pilgrimage in search of self.
I didn’t know a want or plan only that there
was a trail. It didn’t go far or last long, but it
was in another direction, with forks that would
beg me to make the wrong turn, go the wrong way.
Nothing changed, but nothing was the same,
I tuned in, dropped out to proclaim newness,
wanting to plant seeds of enlightenment,
that would grow wherever I slept.
The thought of home made the journey easier.
A need to walk through old doors, the desire
was a simple sentence, with hinges and knobs
that always opened on request.
Years later it was myth, to laugh about at wakes.
The green mescaline was the best -
God came out of the sidewalk as trees,
the neighborhood was never the same.
___
Craig Kirchner loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. He has been published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. Craig can be found on Bluesky.