Hope is a silent songbird
waiting out the darkness to sing.
Its heart pounding faster with the broach of dawn,
Hope is a silent songbird.
In the quiet, its morning song is incurred,
filling dry throats with notes, trills, pings and rings.
Hope is a silent songbird
waiting out the darkness to sing.
You’re a circus leaving town. The colossal tent collapsed and stowed like a deflated heart. A dazzled three-ring, high wire, red nosed, eye-boggling, eye candy, cotton candy, daredevil, juggled, breath-defying merriment. In the distance, a lion’s fading bellow. Elephants trumpet in response. We shuffle our feet in the dirt of the empty lot hoping for forgotten treasures. Sawdust sparkles the sun like fiery confetti.
Words litter bare ground
We put them in our pockets
Take them home to plant
Cheers to you all! Be well. Be safe. Stay cool.
My toddler grandson
snuggles close, reads
the illustrations of girls and boys
cloud-watching,
somersaulting,
running out to play.
Sleep time, I rub his back.
In pitch dark I tell
him his dolphin
pillow is so soft. He replies,
No, it’s not a dolphin.
Dolphins have small teeth.
Whales have small teeth, too.
It’s a shark, Oma.
They have big, big teeth.
His voice trailing off,
I suggest we write a poem
about this in the morning,
after breakfast.
He drifts off, whispers,
Okay. But poetry first.
to recall 44 years of writing
and rewriting our compact–
this wonder of laughter
and loud words,
sick crying babies,
travel around the world
returning to meals
at home with family.
evenings just for two
on the backporch
watching fireflies,
the dying light.
how do we humans
manage to mate
in tenderness,
such fierceness?
The sun lifts above the horizon
an orange ball intense in its glow
turning golden as it rises
Smoky skies lock in the scathing
heat that boils our blood, melting
glacial ice and mountain snow
Breaking into chunks of ice that
dwindle, leaving the earth adrift
while even the oceans swelter
In the evening, the crimson sun
becomes a seething inferno as it
slips into the realm below.
With a climate gone crazy we suffer
what we have created, no longer denying
that we knew, yes, we knew.
Around me, this
Broad, bold, benevolent
Circle of gratitude
Daily reminding of the
Ever-giving nature of the universe
Forming concentric circles of
Grace in abundance for
Healing and revival, an
Infinite source of
Joy and peace
Knitted together to form a
Life rich and revelatory from each
Morning’s first light to each
Night’s dusky stillness
Observing the lyrical
Perpetuation of a pure gentle hum
Quieting your mind to its
Resting state, feeling the
Soul lightening
Touch of the Divine offering
Unending guidance in your
Visioning of tomorrow and tomorrow
Worlds of possibilities and unbounded
eXaltation of the now and
You, as you return to your center, your
Zen
* Abecedarian Poem
worn thin silk long enough to trip me
loose sash tied at the hips
unusable sleeves unsewn at the seams
as the cast of many who’ve worn it before
left damp and discarded
on my lavishly heated tile bathroom floor
The perfect perfume for any morning revere
with the wrens and chickadees,
the cardinals and goldfinch,
and from across the yard,
because they’re not a fan
of cracked corn and sun seeds,
robins, scratching for grubs in the garden.
True to their name, they sing.
True to their nature, they fly.
True to myself, I take a moment here.
There is no deep woods where the mosquitoes don’t bite.
I must return to mine own upon the last sip of my coffee.
Drive along an interstate stretch
in a state of continuous improvement.
Slowed and winnowed into one lane,
your speed is set by
a grunting Peterbilt ahead.
Separating lanes of coming and going
are the tapered Jersey barriers
where you glance to see the weeds,
thistle and teasel,
stretching up from the bottom.
Marestail finds a millimeter
of weakness, a crack in the seam
to push through the mix of rock and
cement with ferocious intent.
What work they do before they
ever get to light! Grasping to root
in packed soil only to be labeled
invasive and nuisance,
a failure of the paved order.
Targets of programs with
mowers and chemicals to kill them,
the weeds adapt.
They keep coming back,
just keep coming back.
Problem is we’re not going to get
any better without help.
There are always people that take
advantage, but we have always
seen that they are few and far between.
The rules of coexisting have been
thrown out by one side. How else
can you produce a trillionaire?
By ignoring the pleas of the helpless,
the unhoused, the hungry, to fill
a dangling maw that will never
be sated. No one person should
ever hold so much power, just like
no one person can do anything
about it. Stop fighting with
each other and work toward
a better future for all 8 billion
of us. Ants rise up. Eat the rich.
