Gaia is totally ******* -
Her world mistreated for so long,
She has finally had about enough -
Vowing revenge for her mistreatment.
She has gathered every weapon
At her command and flung them at us
One by one:
Fire and Flood and moving mud;
Snow with icy coverings;
Wind that trashes homes and lives;
Ground that moves and breaks apart;
Rain that drowns the roadways;
The changing faces of disease
That replicates among us.
But we refuse to hear her cry
The bombs and bullets ever fly
And the clock is striking midnight.
ljm

Mom took my brother and
I to the cemetery when
we were kids.
Her mother and grandma
were there underneath the
grass and dirt.
The spring breeze felt
good on my face.
We put carnations and
lilacs on all the graves.
She told us stories about
our dead relatives.
The tombstones, with the
dates seemed ancient and
final.

After flowering all the
graves, we went to
the pond and fed
the ducks and swans.
There was a fire in
their eyes.
They were always
hungry.
They gobbled the bread
and swam in circles.

When we became
teenagers, Mom took
us to the cemetery, and
taught us how to drive.
She said it was
safer there.
We couldn't ****
anyone.

Many years later
I took my little sons to
cemetery.
I showed them all
the graves and told
the old family stories.
"That's your grandma,"  I said,
pointing to the tombstone.
"She brought me here,
when I was your age."

My oldest son, Zach, who was
seven at the time said,
"When I get old,
I'm going to bring my kids
here to visit the family.
Will you come with us, Daddy?"
"Sure", I said.
Let's feed the swans.

I like the blank page
the empty line
the waiting space
of meaning

the waiting space
of sound

the reddening
against the white
is always black
and stark

ruddy and wet
needing water
wriggling vines
wannabe lines

scarce on an edge
is plentiful here
would you like two
just toss in this you

it's a goner and a
should uh an' a would uh
wrestled into a could uh
and I'm definitely gonna

fill this mf'er in
fill this mf'er up
this mf'er up
mf'er up

Some poems don't
work.
No amount of
tweaking will
fix it.
You can't finger it until
it comes.

Push the delete
button and
start over.
You write because
you have to.
It's in your cells.

You're a salmon,
swimming up
stream to stay
alive.
You write because
the nuthouse yawns,
and beckons.
It waits.

The cage door is
open, and the
water is
tainted with
mercury.
Fly away, or die.

If the writing
isn't working,
go fishing,
eat a tangerine or
some brussel sprouts.
Be livid
Be silly.
Study the *****
and the orchid.

Think about what the
color black tastes like, or if
pink whispers or yells.
And write until
the trivialities take
flight from your
life.
In the surrendering,
triumph will come.

Piano notes drift in the
rainy evening,
like sadness from a
clock.
You were the color
in my dreams.
The paint on my
canvas.

Who remembers your
last breath
That lead you down unto
death
Who was there watching by your side
The afternoon that you died
Where was the place your soul departed
Was it happenstance
or wholly hearted
Did anyone pray or bid farewell
Anything more than it's time to tell
Who glanced at watch and marked it down
When sudden silence looks
around
The minute , hour , day , month and year
There ends the journey from there to here .

I want to whisper in your ear
As loudly and publicly
As a secret can possibly be
Open for everybody
Whispering audaciously

Sun in the night sky
erupts like laughter
sweet, old
but not as loud
tips around in splashes
that scotch the sky
and turn its blackness grey

I am haunted through hours
by the grotesque sounds
of its pain
people gape and smile
at the firework show

But I cannot still my shaking
because I know too much
I am too quiet to quench
the growing silence in me
I watch the show like all else
I fear I’ll never speak again

Every life leads to
Something bigger than
The sum of the parts
Tissues, fluids
Meat, bones
Kids
Creations
Art
What is left
Is rarely nothing
We live on
Somehow
The lucky ones