Eyelids descend like a guillotine,
decapitating the visual stimuli
my mind engrosses upon in daylight.

Then there is a numbness as the
cascading representations of my
day are all rendered darkened silence.

*"My day is colour, my dreams are black and white,

In the pursuit of happiness I walked the roads,
I stopped at milestones, leaned on posts.

I saw a flock of birds in flight,
Rings of gold.. an orb so bright.
I looked around at mountain walls,
The raging sea, white frothy falls.
I looked up at the sky serene,
The valley lush a summer green.
Banyan trees with leaves  bedecked,
Gulmohars lined with blossoms red.

Faces walked engrossed in streets,
A touch, a nod when eyes would meet..
Saw hunger, anguish, weary eyes,
Sorrow, terror, shock, surprise,
I saw the tears of loss and grief,
Faith, resilience, resolve, belief.

I heard the laughter of a child,
I saw the magic of a smile.
A hug, a kiss, a warm caress,
A helping hand that love expressed
I felt the cord of love that binds,
Hearts across the world and time.

I found happiness in little things,
In nature that surprises springs..
His art, the colors that I saw,
That left me breathless, full of awe,
Happiness in that special touch,
In smiles, laughter, that gentle brush.
In kind words that wonders do,
In love that breathes life anew.

In all things that I could see,
I knew happiness begins with me,
Within me what I see or do,
The trail of thoughts I send to you.

And happiness is what I found,
When happiness was spread around.

go forth through the night
not uttering a sound
keep your head low
and face to the ground

don't tell them your name
or date of birth
bank account info
or how much your worth

don't offer your palm print
or the color of your eyes
too much info
and everyone dies

the gathering has begun

I had a vision once

jeeps and dust
an apocalyptic America
and I was scared

this morning I stood in the shower
thinking
maybe I should tell my daughter
to let her hair grow
to pretend to have a boyfriend

our system of checks and balances
is being stomped on
civil liberties
and inalienable rights
are extinct

psychic vision
is poised to become reality
and I never imagined
it would be our own government
holding us hostage

A wind-turbine’s lament. (29 January 2017)

I am a wind-turbine. For five and a half years
I have been stood on this nice hill,
Turning my blades as I was taught.
They say I am making something called ‘power’
So you can boil your kettles and make tea,
Turn on your heating and snuggle up
Cosy and warm when it’s cold; or run the air-conditioning
When it gets hot.

My name is Wallie,
And I am very sad.
From my hill I used to see
A sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
in the same winds that turn my blades.
I really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like me
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

And you walked there as well, sometimes,
And saw the flowers, and your dogs ran along
Between the sand-dunes, and rushed in and out of the waves
Which broke on the beach, where your children played
And built sand-castles.

But now people have come;
They had huge orange diggers which clashed with the soft
Colours of beach and sea and sky;
And they ripped up the grass and the flowers and the sand-dunes,
And then people laid sterilized turf
And made bunkers full of infertile sand
Where nothing grew.
And the whole beach was walled off, so no-one could walk there.
And the dogs no longer chased their tails, and the flowers no longer bloomed;
And all the gulls which used to swoop over the foam
Went away.

And now all I have to look at
Is people with check trousers and garish hats,
And serfs carrying bags full of funny-shaped sticks;
They walk about on the turf and hit little *****
And then they go to where they’ve landed –
Not on foot, with dogs and children running –
But in little carts in clashing colours.

I asked the wind-turbine next to me,
Which can get pirate radio frequencies on its antennae,
What was going on and he said
(his name’s Wallie too); they are playing ‘golf’.
And I said: why? and he said: they have nothing better to do.

The other turbines and I (we’re all called ‘Wallie’)
discussed what to do;
And we decided I should write this letter
To any newspaper which will print it, and complain:

‘We used to have a nice view from this hill,
Of a sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
In the same winds that turn our blades.
We really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like us
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

But now all we have to look at
Is barren grass, denatured sand,
And people in garish clothes who do not care
For flowers and grass and dogs and seagulls
But just hit little ***** about.

No one asked us
If we wanted this change; we were not consulted
And we want to know why we, who serve you faithfully
And give you heat and light, and power your homes
Are worth less than these other people,
Just because they are ‘rich’?’

We are only wind-turbines,
But our voice should also count.
And it you don’t agree
Ask yourself: how much is your own voice worth?
And why?’

this is not a poem

I have been absent

for days and weeks.

I have been cleaning
and sewing

and trying to quiet the anger
that I can't control
in light of this new America.

They say there will be a day
when federal monies
will be revoked from arts programs.

I suggest we start looking for ways
to protect the voices
the ones that are real and true
*and not alternative

I would like to think we were here
before the moon
before any dinosaur
before the sun glowed
laying together
in the open resonance
of space and time
and our souls when the earth
spun around and the sun shone down
were but a place for us
to spend a moment in flesh
for a time
a second to hold on to
for the rest
of eternity