C.T. Holte

Worlds

C.T. Holte

I know little about auras, though a friend who said he did and was also a respected Volvo mechanic with his own shop once said I had a good one. Another fellow whom I never met was able to interact with supersensible worlds–or said so in his book, which I gave up halfway through because it was going somewhere I had no need to go. I do not know if he had an aura, or how many books he sold at his self-promoted lectures. However, a row of flowering plums along our morning walk is in radiant bloom this week, so gorgeous that I stopped to take a picture of the largest one while the dog stopped next to another. The old man in the too-large overcoat slouched on the concrete bench at the bus stop across the road conversing quite loudly with himself (or perhaps with a supersensible world) may not have been aware of us or the dog or the trees. I silently willed him to share the blessing of the otherworldly aura of myriad plum-pink blossoms.

C.T. Holte was born in Minnesota before color TV; grew up playing under bridges, along creeks, and in cornfields; went to lots of school; and has (mostly) enjoyed gigs as teacher, writer, editor, and some less wordy things. Recently transplanted from California to New Mexico, by way of Arizona, he is enjoying the fiery chiles and sunsets. He tends to write about trees, water, and special people. His poetry has appeared or is pending in places like Words, Touch, California Quarterly, Survival (Poets Speak, vol. 5), The Raven’s Perch, Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, The Daily Drunk, Origami Poems Project, Pensive, The Rainbow Poems, and Better than Starbucks, and has been hung from trees to celebrate the Rio Grande Bosque.