Posts for June 30, 2026 (page 8)

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.

I write
but cannot escape
the urge to edit
to purge words
to play the censor.
I analyze
analyze
analyze
yet recognize

that analyze begins
with anal. 

deterioration is

the bask of good sleep

every three years

yielded to a

tyranny of energy

with no space

outlet

person

purpose

we wake rested, thankful for a moment,

nerves finally calmed

then, the terror at having good energy without a container to put it in

        before                             ATP                                    e  v   a    p     o      r       a        t         e           s

as the last canna lily finally blooms

beyond rickety storm door window

while we collapse

thump beats I can count
with my fingers on tables–
bones rattled at God.

They’ve got the range

Find them witty find them woeful
Find them haughty find them humble
See their words precise, incanting
See them falling in a tumble

Hear them scream like crows in flight
High away from any land
Listen to their quiet whispers
How they shift like desert sands

Ponder on their wilds and windows
On their war and on their peace
Imagining gore, red or bloodless
Or spring’s fluffy, baby geese

Poets expounding on their city
The campus streets aflush with cars
The gingko trees, historic buildings
And pasts that brought us where we are

but a commonwealth transplant
with no knowledge of brackets from birth.

My “bury” rhymes with “furry” not with “ferry”
and my “Versailles” now counts five consonants.

I’ve spent Ale-8-One* or two trying to wrap
my mind around a trifecta and the fact

that I have “state”-mates living on the Mississippi.
But I am from LexPoMo, where poetry

is throned and stanzas stride in greatest
honesty—melody and wisdom treasured

like a magic pen. In June, who wouldn’t choose
    to muse and fuse in centos
    to count the syllables and stresses
    to free the Cowboy from his sentence?

Alas, these thirty days will end before
we’ve said it all, and I’ll go back

to where my voice stands out,
wait there these long eleven months

till we sing again. Together.

* A Late One