The little bit of time spent every morning, it was my treasure
when I think about the promises you made to me
You would come back

Rush out the door, onto another plane
The risk you took every time you woke up
You would come back

Stroke my hair, thought of me each time you were in the air
Grabbed my hand, kissed my lips, you said
You would come back

Thunderstorms, always I prayed, and hugged our picture frame
I felt you murmur, through all the noise
You would come back

The   only   promise   You   ever   broke

Because   You   didn't   come   back

The bastardization
of our language
continues apace.

Consider the word

wonderful.

It originally meant:

amazement just beyond
comprehension.

Now we use it to mean nice.
That's a wonderful dress;
She is a wonderful person.
We had a wonderful dinner.

When I call you wonderful,
I mean that even in my arms
you are a mystery
I cannot quite solve,
amazing beyond my knowing.

Remember that Love.

You are the lock I can
fiddle with forever
but never quite open.

The bud I cannot
tease to blossom.

The meaning in my heart,
I'll never know for sure.

Love was meant to be
eternal mystery.

That is why it is *wonderful.

“Look at Mother Nature on the run in the 1970s.”**      Neil Young

The earth battles back,
Katrina, Loma Prieta and Sandy destroy our complacency,
Hurricanes and earthquake chase us from our homes.
Our flood-ravaged farms fail us.
The bees go out on strike,
Refusing the work that sustains us.
Drought destroys germination,
Our food at war with our metabolism,
Energizing while poisoning our bodies.
Dioxin & mercury cross our epidermis,
Infect us; **** us in revenge.
The air itself in rebellion,
Hot, fetid, over-carbonated;
Unbreathable.
The atmosphere itself,
Voting us off the planet.
The non-human and the inorganic conspire against us,
Plot extinction of our species,
Condemn us for crimes against the earth.

Why, O Lord,
In your wisdom that knows no bounds,
Must you architect man's hands
To not penetrate with ease
Onto the narrow cavity of thy cheez-it box?

I turn my head, and the world tilts,



Everything is not as it seems,



True reality appears to be missing,



Like illusions, inside a dream.



I meander in darkness through water,



Called upon by a passing bird,



Blood fizzing, inside gnarled veins,



I am waiting upon the word.



I try to recall a time of innocence,



Guiding myself by the moons on water,



Letting go of all temporal lines,



Remembering once I was the daughter.



I dive into a net full of fishes,



Caught suspended in the reeds,



And inside the sleeping silence,



An ancient language plants its seeds.



It flows like an aria inside me,



Imploring  for the unreal to be heard,



Make us of the flesh they cry



And I commence to write the word.