Darwin’s out of favor it seems
and the celestial band’s in play
no tyrannosaurus from long ago with the arc experience now the nation’s destination
A neighbor bit the bullet, built
his house underground on a tree-
less plain with turrets for his sub-
machine and rations from a tele-evangelist
No more care for the sick, no chair for the lame, all the lucre
to the bosses who’ve found the secret code in Charlie’s survival of the fittest
Surfacing, your hands part the curtain of the water.
You were under long enough to face not being.
Like any sprout, you rise toward light.
I should feel sorrow, but with your faith,
I feel your conquering joy.
It is complete. You’re free.
Trust served you well, my friend.
As far as I can tell, heaven’s here
and also hell, but I feel you lifted.
Beyond my understanding, you are safe,
as are your parents before you.
Children long for even the effigy
of you, who cannot be absent. I know
you knew that this, after everything,
would be the way toward love.
The local natives gave Peter Minuit the island
of Manhattan in exchange
for some hatchets, cloth, and beads with the approximate
value of one and a half pounds of silver.
In 1690, the first paper money
in the history of Western civilization
was issued by the Massachusetts Bay Company.
President Andrew Jackson purchased
the Louisiana Territory (828,000 square miles)
for three cents an acre.
The material value of a 1982 penny is two
and a half times it’s face value.
I just marked my place
in a poetry collection
with a worthless
lottery ticket
to remind me
there’s no money
in poetry
only a chance
that if I scratch off
enough of them
one day I might
hit it big
maybe even
make my money back.
Who scratches off
lottery tickets
for the money anyway?
Sweet grass confetti
strewn across the passage floor
The ancient ease weaves
wonderous kissed mountain tops–
steadying lush loneliness,
unbuckling fear,
unearthing heaven’s one core–
God is love, and love
is God, and Jesus is here.
Hallelujah and Amen.
(C) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone
on good days
banners march forward
proclaiming pride, mission,
an identity to rally behind
but on others
headers feel oppressive,
weighty,
crushing the structure
underneath
the finitude of its deadline
and rules
the keystrokes do not always come
as quickly as the tapping of the raindrops
on my window from the storm raging outside
but I am learning in this darkness
to draw inspiration from without
when nothing seems to come from within
butterflies and unforgotten mountains
spilling flowers from my palms,
sea salt from my tongue
I sleep in the middle of my bed
with both windows open
because if the sun had a skeleton
exo or otherwise
i think those bones would have the same strength yours must
glaze baking
changing
and joan of arc was 14,
sacagawea: 18;
and i am a weak-kneed child,
looking at the world
and thinking about myself
No one told me about this part
of marriage. It’s the part when
I forget you can’t slice swiss
in a mandoline and not lose
some of your thumb. It’s when
you’re across the room before
I can think, before I can turn on
the tap like it’s a burn, a paper-cut.
No one told me about the slow motion.
I move as if in humid, thick vapor,
but I blink and you sit me on the couch,
my paper-towel gauze squeezed
in my hands, my hands over my head.
“Over your head,” you say. Your keys
flash from the hook, and you’re gone
for a first-aid kit we never bought
while I still try to shake the thought
of my left-behind, thin-sliced thumb
left on the blade. No one told me
I would think more about the radishes
I sliced the day before rather than pain
or that the house could feel so quiet
in the time it takes for you to return.
Hold your horses, throw your hat in the ring,
the show must go on, jumbo: circus language.
Older than Coca-Cola and Major League Baseball,
theatre of the impossible, place of wonder,
the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus ended
an American tradition on May 21 in New York state.
After 146 years, The Greatest Show on Earth
presented its final epic spectacle.
At the close of their act, the last gymnasts walked
toward each other in the middle of the net.
Suspended above the ground, the two men
embraced each other to mark the close of an era.
How will the performers remain in memory
now that the last pony has pranced out of the big top
and the last acrobat taken her bow? after Queen Tatiana’s
dream of supreme circus domination has ended?
With the clowns and the ringmaster, she was
ready to take her space ship home to earth
where Alexander presented 14 lions and tigers,
leapfrogging, cuddling, and jumping through hoops.
Masai, the last to leave the ring, gave the trainer a kiss.
Alexander’s father, mother, and brother had raised 500 big cats.
As a boy, he had asked his mother, could he be a lion tamer?
Yes, after he had worked taking care of the animals.
“Ready, babies?” Alexander called to Onyx and Amber,
Susie, Bella (who licked his arms), Max, King, and Cashmere,
encouraging the audience to support well-run circuses and parks
so future generations could enjoy these beautiful animals.
The uplifting clowns gave way to thrill skaters, contortionists,
daredevil bikers, and shooting star aerialists. A poodle
played Double Dutch, dogs barked to the beat, lamas kneeled,
a kangaroo jumped hurdles, and the alpacas pushed their limits.
A little dog in a basket dove–without hesitation–into a blanket.
So much trust. In came the clowns, considered divine spirits
in ancient Egypt, survivors. One walked a tightrope, where he
performed somersaults and a handstand atop a 47-foot sway pole.
With the journey ended, many are searching for places to live.
Eke, the clown, hopes to get a job as a bartender, juggling bottles.
Johnathan, of the Harlem Boys Choir, says opera may lure him back.
Alexander will move to Germany with the big cats and his brother.
For the finale, families and crew joined the performers on stage
to hug and sing a round of “Auld Lang Syne.” The ringmaster repeated,
“Keep the circus alive inside you” and “We’ll see you down the road.”
