Keening cry or sorrowful sob
                    why so?

Threat drives toxic overconsumption;
         toxic overconsumption feeds fear and anxiety;
                  fear and anxiety increase misinformation intake,
                                                                            escalating threat perception

Constant threat:
         perpetuates despair,
         trouble sleeping,
         undermines health,
         nurtures mood swings

                              Cycling, Cycling, Cycling
                              Over and Over and Over again
                                                                              And again
                                                                                         And again
                                                                                                    And again

I heard a cry . . . my own?

Keening cry or sorrowful sob
                   why so?

how to     need to     break cycle cycle cycle
          pause     remember to
                   breathe . . .

not wise enough to know
         what I can do to make difference
          just do what I can do in
                    my little corner

                    and

              remember

         pause     remember to
                  breathe . . .

Let the cool lake of your body rise out of itself—
the drip in your wrist become creek,
the sheet wrinkling steam
like a backroad after the summer rain.

Let your damp breath fog the window
at 3 a.m., the salt marsh of sweat
pool on your collarbone. Become
a county you cannot map.

Your body made faster and moving away—away
from the named things:
toward the unroofed night,
the crickets stitching heatsong.

And become the frisson waves of heat mirage—
that shimmer above the highway
where all shadow thins beautiful and black,
then vanishes. Become the static
between radio stations,
the buzz warp in the fluorescent light.

Let you become
a wildness slipped from its chain lead—
water finding a low point in the gully–
light bending around hillock and pavement–
up. And going.

My great-grandmother visited me the other night
        I was upset
                    heartbroken
                                longing for days, I can no longer chase.
  My fingers kept busy, folding clothes.
        I could sense her
                    behind me
                    her perfume reeked: floral essence.
  My tears continue sliding
        silently
                    as my feet shuffle on—
                                to the other room.
        I could feel her
                     beside me,
                                longing to hug me,
                                                          to comfort me.
        I told her
                    “no, I’m fine” and “no, not right now”.
        I wanted her to
                    go back and rest,
                    to move on without me.
  She lingers
         a little longer
         —but eventually
                                 she listens
                                               and her spirit disappears.

Part I

The day so hot, I dove into a painting—
the first water scene I saw— a stormy sea
painted with Prussian blues, teals rolling
round, with turquoise tips, and the sky,
an Aegean blue mottled with dark clouds.
Two fisherman aboard a sailboat
of time-darkened white sails, holding tight
to lines, hoisted me aboard. Up close, I noticed
their hip boots and dark grey oilskins, and beneath,
navy woolen sweaters, all of a time long past.

I recognized the older man—  the painter,
Russell Bauer, who once loved my grandmother.
Not startled by my presence, he growled,
How’s your dear Oma? Though rain and wind
whipped his face, I could see his tears.
He didn’t seem to mind, scowled and said,
Yes, lost love is forever my tempest. He took my hand—
begged me to leave, to take a message to her.

I found myself on the floor below the frame,
a coil of seaweed entangled in my toes. Echoes of
I still love rang all day in this tiny half bath.

An ekphrastic, from Sails on Stormy Seas by Russell Bauer.
1965. Acrylic on canvas. 18 x 24.

Careening into the Middle East                                              
                            after Farnaz Fatemi    

Self-satisfied peacock
Fanning out your feathers

     Fordow              Natanz                Esfahan  

How lightly you carried this dark plan
Through your gilded golf resort                                                        

                                                                                        Esfahan is the birthplace of Farnaz’ father                                                                                            Fall in love with its great square, minarets 
                   
                                                                                        Drink tea in the garden courtyard                                                                                                          of the Abbasi Hotel      In the shops

                                                                                        learn to bargain with humility and respect                                                                                          so both sides will feel satisfied    

Blighted America of carrots and sticks, winners
and losers, bully opponents with bombs, tariffs  

Defund dissenters, enlist the National Guard, bulldoze
the rose garden, make way for hundred foot flagpoles  

The President’s gold
now the White House brand       

                                                         It takes a protester from Tehran to say it: 
                                                              There is no one dirtier than Trump.    

                                                                                        Esfahan sits along the Zayandeh River                                                                                                  where years ago, Farnaz is told,                                                        
                                                                                        her grandfather ministered to scores                                                                                                    of stray cats with his tender Iranian heart

I am not

what are they living for
there’s no flock
no herd no pack
no governing

random
isolationists
together alone
for what do they wait

in that distance
they can’t quite see
squinting
were sights ever there

when they were young
but now, without a leader
queen worker drone
from where comes the sweetness

as their beaks open wide
their flightless wings flutter
honey harvested
is dribbled from tourists passing by

do they feel the pursuit of death
are they hiding from it all
in their shrinking world
shape shifting in plain sight

each new morning, they swagger big
getting small change
from dog walkers
who can’t walk fast enough

the squatters with fresh coffee
lay claim to a cafe table and chairs
loudly toasting that they live on
before being asked to leave

yet only side step the shifting sands
while chance determines all claims to power
taking turns flicking
a cardboard game spinner

In this heat they all come out
continuing to blow
matchstick ships with tissue sails
through the air by long winded talk

many co-mingling realities, connections
and contradictions roll in with the tides daily
swamping this urban scape observed
from the safety of my Duck Blind

Thirty-five years ago
I walked down the aisle
To the man of my dreams
My smile and my love
Wide as the Grand Canyon
It continues to flow
As the years grow
The love in my heart
Will never depart
Thirty-five years ago today
I said I do
I was no longer
One
We are 
Forever
Two

yesterday I rhymed
saw patterned lines as comfort
offering direction  
solid solace in old rhythms  

today the singalong ball bounced right off the screen
it was rolling down the driveway
last I saw  
no energy to chase after it  

today I am the unmade bed
a grilled cheese sandwich half eaten
second cup of tepid coffee
unread correspondence  

today it is enough
to untangle a thought or two
like neglected necklace chains scratching around the junk drawer of my mind  
picking at nots, impatient