Green fields of Ohio
manicured, rolling, perfect.
Stone villas, gates, fences
mansions in his eyes.
It was the time of Reagan and Gorbachev 
of Jack Nicklaus and Bohuslav Stejskal, Bob, my father.
So fresh and new was he 
in this land
green like the course that surrounded them.
Eyes blue and shining
through the beard laced with dust.
How many words did he know back then?
Brick? Stone? Mortar?
“Welcome to America!”
The golfer teed off 
flashing his perfect, straight, American teeth.
My father may have been startled
had he known the pro.
He stretched out a hard, calloused hand
He loved to play.  Loved to laugh.
And ignorance is bliss.
He took the gleaming stick
squared off 
right leg toward the target
wound up over his left shoulder 
the best slap shot
any puck could’ve asked for!
Only this was golf
this was America
a land (as it turned out)
not too pristine
for a sense of humor.
by Barbora Bridle


White box van
sails arrow highway
New images flood the windows of our carriage
Lengths of land we’d never imagined
A great tusk arcing 
along the shore of the Mississippi
Red earth ripped open 
a sliver at a time
No words
just wheels hissing on pavement
Another move
We trembled
at our roots perhaps
though faces were poised
toward possibility.
The Pacific,
still, from afar
but Oh! the waves 
that would pummel us.
Barbora Bridle 

Trikonasana (Triangle)

Like an ancient pyramid
solid and golden
aspiring to the heavens
I stand
spreading from foot to finger
an invisible lightning rod
a conduit
Life travels 
through its channels 
Body and soul 
e   x       a            d 
to meet their Maker
at thousands of spaces
where subtle sparks occur
and I am 
according to ancient sages

I am healed
lifted from my contracted self
for moments,
until next time.