in regards to where we would find
our hands and elbows entwined,
you never did guarantee that
you could answer with certainty.
"Anything could happen
in five years, Vin-
we could be the last two people
on Earth," you told me,
"how's that for an answer?"
well, it's a shame that we weren't.
it's a shame our love had to share
so much in common
with the stars that we swore
were living with us
when we'd bullshit in the car,
forgetting how much light years
play tricks on our eyes.
it's a shame that our love
had to be the canary that
never made it out of the coal mine;
though we reassured ourselves
it would come about before night,
the last echoes of those birdsongs
only came from the walls of our minds.
and it's a shame that
when we speak,
it's seldom that we talk,
so I may never know
just what you really wanted to do
with all of this-
whatever it was,
I just hope this wasn't it.
Here a mother nature stands in the trees, she sees dear animals and feeds them. She gives them tender and joy love.
Her name is unknown but she is someone who is head of this magical place.
She watches anyone and gives them her love and light holy care to them.
The people picture her as an angel or a beautiful goddess.
She tells them her name, her name is Luxshana.. goddess of love and nature. <3
Mom doesn’t like poetry
since it’s not clear like how things should be.
Until you write her one,
and beaming she’ll put it on the fridge with a magnet.
Mom likes things sorted and clean, papers off
the table or in the bin, dishes in the sink or the cupboard.
What is this? Why is this here?
If it’s clutter, it’s just stuff. Don’t save it.
In her room she has 37 years of photos
and sometimes tears up when she thinks of her parents
but she would never admit it.
So, she laughs and means it
when her grandchildren dump the box of toys across the living room
and the dogs slide down the hall past the family photos
and bang open doors after a bouncing ball.
Most of the lines on her face come from laughing, crows’ feet dotting her crinkling eyes.
Her birdcall laugh hangs high above any room
like a day-warbler or a hooting night-owl over the treetops.
So much of her is rocks and earth and order,
but every bit of her speaks of beating wings and blue skies.
Mom’s favorite color is blue, deep like the ocean, bright like the sky.
Don’t tell her blue’s a sad color;
she dressed her baby boy in the ocean and then his sister
when she could fit his hand-me-downs,
and then laughed when the disapproving daycare lady sent her daughter home in pink.
She lives with her husband of 36 years in a light blue house
and relished painting skies on her kitchen and living room walls
after 10 years of white and little time
and laughed again when her children protested at the blue walls, rugs, and curtains.
Time may pass,
and the blue curtains, rugs, and walls may have disappeared
and her children may have had children,
but blue is still her favorite color and her children are still her children,
and she still doesn’t like poetry.
Black, white, brown,
Love in coveys
All these colors move me
Together in dust baths clothing
Burrowing underbellies stirring
Scratching soil for seeds
Searching for berries
Amongst communal broods married
The females lay clutch
As Males utter pips and squills
California quail begot
These colors together
The birds flit through the air.
Chirp and sing cheerfully,
With little concern,
For the follies of man.
Unless the elder,
Brings a bag of seed.
Hoping to make a friend,
In the flitting birds.
So the elder may perchance dream of being free.
Of taking flight like the avian creature.