Hari Bhajan Khalsa
2007 Creekwalker Poetry Prize Judge
Hari Bhajan’s time is split between the fast lane of Los Angeles with eight million other people and floating
amongst mule deer and red-tailed hawks in the woods outside the little town of Sisters, Oregon. She is a Life
Coach, workshop facilitator and writer of poems and personal essays, married with one grown son. She has
a semi-monthly e-letter and weblog called Poetry Evolution, where she shares her thoughts and travels, the
poems and poets she loves, as well as various poetry events happening in the local and global community.
Her work has been published in Poesy, Poetic Diversity, Squaw Valley Review, Aquarian Times and The
Lilliput Review (upcoming). She graduated from Vermont College with a B. A. in Creative Writing (after a
hiatus from school for 30 years) and is a fellow at the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences.
amongst mule deer and red-tailed hawks in the woods outside the little town of Sisters, Oregon. She is a Life
Coach, workshop facilitator and writer of poems and personal essays, married with one grown son. She has
a semi-monthly e-letter and weblog called Poetry Evolution, where she shares her thoughts and travels, the
poems and poets she loves, as well as various poetry events happening in the local and global community.
Her work has been published in Poesy, Poetic Diversity, Squaw Valley Review, Aquarian Times and The
Lilliput Review (upcoming). She graduated from Vermont College with a B. A. in Creative Writing (after a
hiatus from school for 30 years) and is a fellow at the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences.
DROUGHT
The city sways and jerks,
every citizen
with an uncontainable urge
to keep moving; get in cars, go to the mall,
the movies, get somewhere
and be cooled. Downing gallons
of water, taking baths,
we shower, swim
in chlorinated pools, float belly up
in the Pacific, looking to hydrate, immerse
in anything wet – a momentary fix –
for what we crave descends
unbidden, no need
to turn a spigot, twist a bottle cap –
a highly strung force, like a woman
who can take or leave you depending
on her mood.
In my third-floor apartment,
I fuss and flip under
one thin sheet,
pull the hapless, churning fan
one inch closer, hang on the moon pitched
cockeyed out my window – so coolly
indifferent
to our fevered plight below.
RAVEN
Probes damp blades of grass,
eyes insect and stone,
his mannered countenance,
pointed attentions,
a benediction,
a feathered anointment.
PECOS, NEW MEXICO
Beyond the river
a fan of cottonwoods
bows to the dawn.
A million light years
of sun
prick my flesh.
Crying comes easily
at movies
in the middle of the day,
at dinner
biting into an olive.
What if it’s not about
who I am,
but the red-veined stone
at the river’s edge?
Appeared in Poesy, 2004
© Copyright Hari Bhajan Khalsa. All Rights Reserved.
