The sky turns many colors as the sun rises in the morning.
In time, they fade to a blue that is so deep it could go on forever.
Many days have come and gone, and soon the sun will set making way for the stars.
Eventually, the sun will rise again, because as we drift through the universe like those glowing dots, Earth makes anouther rotation.
What if life is simply a distraction from a boring cosmic existence,
And we are projected characters living out a contrived drama,
Actually watching our puppet selves from a galactic distance?
According to scripture, the world at creation was without form and void,
But are we really sure that it was ever formed at all–except in our extraterrestrial imaginations?
Thoughts like this keep some of us awake at night,
Some of us, but not me,
Because, if I don’t really exist in this three-dimensional hallucination, who is doing the worrying?
I take my dog on a walk around the farm,
an adventure to seek some beauty
fill my head with flowers and birdsong and
lush green leaves of every shade
anything but the news
surrounded by wind blowing
so strong the electric is out.
I watch a redwing blackbird try to fly
beaten back by the breeze
too far from any trees,
it lands on the electric wire
calling a long alarm at our presence
there on the gravel road
a warning to its family and friends
the most dangerous creature is nearby.
She writes to me
and says it’s easy to point out flaws
when you aren’t the one driving
every week
she mows her yard down
until its barely visible
as an offering
to the HOA goons
I tell her it’s a scam
she ought to be living here with me
where I can let my jacobs ladder grow
for the whole HOA to see
‘cus none are the wiser
I kinda like the look
it suits me
“I like the flowers I don’t care where they come from”
I tell her and she just laughs
she sends me a virtual hug
and I send her mine
One day
I tell myself
one day
both of us are gonna have to let this ride
“Who makes the rules?” asks the ferocious lion.
“Not you that’s for sure,” said the man.
“Why is that?” asked the bright tiger.
“Because you walk on all fours
and cannot open doors.”
“But I can!” yelled the big, black bear.
“So why can’t I help in this rule-making affair?”
The man chuckled “Stop asking silly questions you savage beast.
We are human: top of the food chain, elite,
superior intellect, no animal can meet.”
“Despite that though, don’t we cause a lot of damage?” interrupts an inquisitive child.
The man shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing that we cannot manage.”
“I wouldn’t say so, sir. Because, despite the rules we have imagined
events keep happening that are kind of tragic. Like murdered innocence
happening because someone disagreed
or someone went on a joyful killing spree.”
“Animals murder..” the man tries to respond.
“But not senselessly,” the child disrupts not letting this bullshit go on.
“Animals murder for their own survival
While we kill for sport every once in awhile
Or we kill because we misunderstand
But still don’t apologize, claiming ‘My bad.”
“So we cause a little damage,
does not mean that we are savage.” The man starts to sweat.
“I’d say savage is the perfect word for our society
because we engage in violence of a variety
that would even cause animals overwhelming anxiety.
We chop down their homes
and take other humans out of their own,
we kill and leave the body cold
while animals at least eat their prey whole,
we rape our people, tear them down to the seems.
No wonder the animals always choose to flee.”
The child might have a point, the man thinks, but won’t admit
Instead asks “What’s the point of all this?”
“To make you see that we are ruthless and vile
that our rules are not working, making us wild
I see this, and I’m only just a child.”
So look to the lions and tigers and bears, oh my,
not as scary when compared to human lies.
Lions and tigers and bears, seem vicious
but human minds, oh so more malicious.
So ask yourselves what would you do?
Stay committed to the human rule
or let the animals inside claw out of you?
Katy’s sleeping
next to me
on the futon,
head lolling
on her shoulder.
Erik sits across
in the arm chair,
grinning.
I’m flipping
through a book
on pack mules
in the 80s.
And Clancey
kneels between us,
building a lego
horse trailer
with an old
Ford Bronco,
as Erik describes it.
There are lemonade
glasses all around
the room, perched
on arm rests
and side tables.
The air unit
in the window
is blowing,
mercifully.
And the only
noise above the fan
is the constant
whistle of a boy
at work.
You laughed out loud,
when I was described as a poet.
I smiled at you with a twinkle in my eye.
Because you were already a poem.
Ha, ha, my poems aren’t funny.
They are about people like you.
People that don’t have access to what I have.
The ability to feel something but not say it out loud.
You say out loud what you feel with out filter.
I write it for others to read what they too, have felt.
I feel for people that use currency for likes.
I prefer genuine likeness.
I could have dragged out the process.
I rather spend my time writing about it.
I will make my money off your absurbness.
We live in our bubble,
Constrained by a
Flimsy film
We are afraid
To pop.
Too often we
Gaze enviously at
What is
“Out there”.
Just as often
We are afraid
Of what is
“Out there”.
It is when we
Do the work to
Understand and embrace
What is inside us
That we can
POP! the bubble
And step out.
