Posts for June 10, 2022


Mother Nature

Mother Nature is giving is giving us a big ‘f–k y’all’ right now.

Instead of our humid summers,
we have crazy thunderstorms with tornado warnings.

The trees took longer than normal to grow their coats back,
and the animals are rebelling a little bit more.

Wait, you’re telling me you didn’t read about the alligator who ate that old lady?

It is our fault.
Our takeout chinese is floating in the Pacific as we speak.
Waiting for a seal to choke on it.

If we didn’t need those factories maybe the glaciers would be getting bigger.
Wait, do we need those factories?

I mean the people before us did just fine without phones and hair dryers,
without AC and sports cars and condoms.

Humans love having more. 
Maybe that’s why Mother Nature hates us so much.

We didn’t settle for what she gave us. 



Time clock 
Time and a half
A bigger pay check 
I wonder if 
I’ll ever get my time back


The Mystery of Me

Growing down from growing up
time to reflect on my self-created tapestry
of luminous longing, wildering travel.
Loner and lover, nurturer, motherer,
dancer of words, aspiring creator
of soul soaring artistry, staunchly
progressive, promoter of peace.
Inspiring the loves who will follow me.

-Sue Neufarth Howard


No time

there is so much 
i want to do 
so much
i want to see 
but there is no time

i sit and debate 
my two options 
much deserved vacation
or a year of stress
the decision should seem like a no-brainer 

i want to see the world 
this trip could be my chance 
to do something nice for myself

but i want to be someone i can look up to 
this year could be my chance 
to have the piece of paper i know i deserve 

so the question remains 

do or see? 
vacay or degree? 



Whats to be done with a love that cannot be contained?
You have made me a wing-ed bird
Flying free of bonds of earth.
For all time,
I’m your chickadee


Find me

years of chaotic 
white noise
static on the radio 
a frequency 
set different 
from the rest 
you and I.

a story
to be 

You were there 
So was I 
every time 
and time before. 
My heart can 
only hope 
you’ll find me 
in every time 
thereafter and 




Three Rabbits

The orange moon
Smolders in curly white smoke,
As large as Chagall would paint it-
Wearing so many kind faces

I feel I must know them
they are here for me
across time
To repay some favor, maybe
made in some other lifetime

Three rabbits stand in the empty lot
Two are preparing their ritual dance
The third is a sentry, and taking it seriously

One jumps high on the air
to find the secret staircase
which reaches the moon’s doorjamb

Birth life death
Mind body soul
Three rabbits appear

Swiftly, swiftly,
New Beginnings appear

It’s not the first time
that three rabbits have caught my attention
punctuating the air with silent raucous purpose
just as someone
who smiles and laughter
have been near
from my earliest youth
has unwound nearly all of their golden thread.


Mowing Mixtape Vol. 15

there’s not much
we can control
beyond the home and yard
even those things
are sometimes not ours
living on borrowed land
paying an unreasonable fee
with the chance of eviction
every single month
being told 
by some man 
who doesn’t dress
like a banker should
tell us 
we’re just not able

what I do
is mow my neighbor’s yard
listen to the woman
talk about mending her fence
while we walk
together from the back to front
of her property
listening to her rant
about those who don’t and do
have money
leave her feeling better
about a crumbling structure
telling her that 
I’ll help
knowing what Frost
once said

I don’t tell her
if I had my way
there wouldn’t be
any fence at all
so I could mow every yard
all one length 
follow those patterns
that I like so much
get lost in the engine roar
the heavy sun
mow until the end

so nothing 
out there
could reach it’s 
debilitating fingers
and squeeze
the last bit of hope
from this ragged
thing of a body


Doubt (albeit where one may pronounce the b—)

Where Dürer refines from graven lines
the ponderous soul of his subjects, 

While sadness traces Franz’s face, 
still Schubert regales us in tongues and catgut—

Bill Butler knows a rose is a rose
yet Yeats still seeks a developing image and I,

the nimble and whimsical tongue just noisily moisten pointless postage.


screw your white picket fence

This world was not made for the heavy minded,

the wild souls


We do not look forward to settling

We strive for a life worth living


They tell us we’ll be lonely,

And unsuccessful


But we will have lived a million times over

While you have stayed behind your white picket fence