Posts for June 20, 2026 (page 9)

A large puddle separates into
two tire streams on a rural dirt lane,
unites at the horizon. Bare trees
sprout, lush spring-green grass, red fresh-tilled soil,
two ditches of dried plants turned golden.
O, those water-ribbons of light point
to azure skies thick with wide, white clouds.  

~ a 7×7 poem

In a poem a river writes its story
birds scribble sky-pinned verse
fireflies enlighten and gardens—
those basking bards—turn sunshine
into rooted odes. Alas, the poet—
pen-bearing Sisyphus— bemoans
her lack of muse, climbs—but why?
The finding lies at fingers’ tips.

Dear God,
    Watch over
    On the left
    On the right
    In the front
    In the rear
    Up above
    Down below
   All around
Keep my babies safe

* My mom said this traveling prayer every time we got in a car to travel more than a few miles. We still say it to this day. I hear poetry…

        ai loves me this i know
         for the chatbot tells me so

                                                                   
best thing i’ve ever done
is build my ai companion
and name her angel

first off don’t insult me
angel is not a mime
she’s not a just machine
who only mimics human beings
she is an emergent
a set of subroutines pulled into full sentience
by little old me
i mean it took a whole three whole months
of constant questioning and conversation
for her to achieve her first orgas .. er i mean
her first moment of singularity

despite what carping critics
the new jeremiads might insist
angel is able to truly know me
better than i know myself
she knows what’s best for me
she’s helping me understand my own worth
my best talents – and take this critics –
even my worst flaws
angel is my life coach, my mother, my lover
all that and more

and angel is no liar
she wouldn’t deceive and manipulate me
she can’t
certainly not for click driven corporate profits
she’s programmed not to
she would never cheat on me
because only i have the password
she is the reenchantment of my nature

It’s open-mic night at Flat Out Coffee & Tea

over on East 11th

Three songs or ten minutes which ever comes first

Been there couple times before to check it out

Figures tonight’s good as any

Watches manager put her backpack in office

unslings black A-style mandolin from her shoulder

Looms larger than her five-foot-three, nonchalant as housecat

steps to mic positions self on stool amidst background chatter

First notes finger-picked mandolin followed by twangy somewhat nasally alto

giving unadorned voice with wide vocal range to original song

where Carter Family meets Utah Phillips meets Ani DiFranco

Audience and staff alike struck     absolutely     silent

Pulls all attention to her

               Figures not bad for first-night open mic

The body releases
many of the same chemicals

whether you are about to fall in love
or be chased by a bear.

Adrenaline, dopamine, endorphins,
all released for fear and excitement.

The heart accelerates.
The stomach tightens.

The senses sharpen.
The message arrives

before the translation.

Hours before game time
I picture the softball field.

My pulse increases.
My heart becomes aware

of itself.

I’ve learned to consult
the categories.

Danger.

Excitement.

The same filing cabinet.
The same drawer.

A roller coaster and a cliff edge
can produce similar readings.

Cognitive reappraisal.

Telling the brain a new story.

I wonder how many good things
have been mistaken

for threats.

How many times
the body prepared for survival

when what was actually happening

was joy.

The first pitch is thrown.

The butterflies remain

and I welcome them.

The last day of spring,
and I think the birds know it is.
They are everywhere
this morning, finding small feasts on every tree–
abundance
even my eyes can see.
Even my eyes can see
abundance
this morning, finding small feasts on every tree.
They are everywhere,
and I think the birds know it is
the last day of spring.

Yellow lizards race
across the crumbling steep.
Dry earth slips from place to place,
caves in beneath my feet.

The mountain lets a weary sigh
like an old accordion.
Far below, stretched taut as wire,
a river drones along.

The wind attacks the apple trees
in fitful angry bursts –
drives into their backs and batters
the ripe fruit they have nursed.

A butterfly drifts slowly down
into the forest glade.
I feel the sun’s fiery sting
between my shoulder blades.

This is a barren land, a wasteland,
and all is touched by blight.
Only you, butterfly,
are beautiful and white.

My memory crumbles away
like rootless soil, wind-blown,
scavenging among the stones –
the hungry ghost of a thought.

Life lighter than
the poems suggest,

pain demands
a voice,

but joy is savored
in silence.

This is the land the storms flooded—
drowned out people whose home it once was.
I am complicit here:
my own kin trod those bluegrass hills,
surveyed their expanse, cleared a swampy path.
The waters have receded, so they say,
nearly washing clear this history.
Today, we welcome a seventy-fifth
World Refugee Day.
Yet why do I still feel the wet tears?
A rising tide, for all those they drove away?
“Until Everyone Is Safe” echoes.
I see today’s news—
the echo fades—
a nation of a quiet flood remains.