Be
born
that
way

A houseboat on Herrington Lake
where Jack Teal orchestrates martinis
for Dr. Tom and Z.Z.

The only other boats are far away
we can relax and be ourselves

Near the west bank
we drop anchor 
shade from a giant sycamore
lets us jaw away the afternoon

until dusk
when strawberry moon rises
to illuminate 
our every sentence

The motionless water turns to glass
we strip off all our clothes
dive in 
to make sure it’s still liquid

Back on deck
we dry out
by sitting like stones

Nighthawks pierce the air

Suddenly
the boat has a glass bottom
and we three sailors
can see down into the depths
of who we truly are

Artificial intelligence—
is making us “real dumb.”
There is so much evidence,
to show how far back as a people we’ve become.
Many don’t think for themselves anymore.
I see masses duped into believing fabricated stories, images, and more.
These creations are taking over jobs— even skilled professions due to ease and speed;
While depleting resources like our land, water, and trees.
What will humans do in the next 100 years?
I try not to marvel with fear.
What will we be?
I hope we’re not headed toward extinction as depicted in the Terminator series.

With one fierce breath, you fanned the flame of potential in me,
a tender thing, once buried
beneath guilt and fear
of overwhelming any that dared come too close
now set ablaze.
Impossible to ignore

Scientists used to say that the bumblebee,

Was not designed to fly,

But the bumbling bumblebee

Says I can’t help but try.

She fumbles and she tumbles,

And she bumbles all around,

Then her wings shift her and they lift her,

And she leaves her nest there on the ground.

She buzzes just above the blooms,

And looks the garden over,

And says to herself, “Who but me,

 Will pollinate the Red Clover?”

In the haying season,

Sometimes her nest is found,

By mean little boys,

Where it lies there on the ground.

They place a half filled water jug,

By the hidden nest,

Then they poke and anger the bumblebees,

And call it all a jest.

The bees hear the echo in the jug,

And think they are in danger,

Then dive into the bottle’s neck,

To defend against the stranger.

Once every single bee from the hive,

Is in the water jug,

The boys find the bumbler’s nest,

And then they rob the bug.

For boys find the nest to be,

A sweet summer treat,

And once the honey eaten, they dump the bees,

Their work then to repeat.

At least that’s how it used to be,

Before the tractor came,

Followed by the chemicals,

Which were followed by the blame.

And in this age of progress,

And “hurry” on the farm,

The bee has become a casualty,

And should be an alarm.

There is more to heaven and earth they say,

Than man’s philosophies,

And in our pompous pride and peril,

We neglect the humble bees.

Seniors come to believe
they can move to syncopated beats,
to hoots, hollers, and high fives,
and Brianna’s endless smile.

Under the Tutelage of Angels:

eyes peeled, we pore over the dreary brown quilt
squares of winter farmland, searching for the familiar
patch preserved so precisely in our minds as it was
thirty years ago that we nearly fail to realize
when we finally come upon it, pass right by 

wait, turn back

the house, sided in slate gray now
instead of dingy white, the wise
old tree out front even bigger

yes, that’s it, that’s the place

where we found caterpillars
once, the hill we frolicked green
summer mornings, the steps we worried
grandma would fall down, break a hip

did she? I can’t remember

but I wonder if this place does. do hills
and houses hold on to memories? miss
those who filled them, frying eggs, reading
newspapers, sweeping cobwebs, saying prayers?
is it possible these fields could still know our faces?       

do you think they’re happy to see us now?

 “Step aside,” the spider shouted
as he neared the garden gate.
“Not so fast,” replied the mantis,
as he folded up his cape.  

 
So, the spider said, “You go first,”
And mantis said, “No, you.”
Then, side-by-side, they waltzed on through
tripping on each other’s shoes.