If you keep banging on the devil's door
someone is bound to answer
those who don't know why they bleed
have their blood lapped up by panthers

firing at the sky, toward crows
the doves will be falling
before you load up your gun
remember who you're calling

when bad things are done for good
we are taking chances
when you whistle that old tune
the devil always dances

If there’s one lesson you learn,
let it be that-
Nature is not weak,
and you are nature

You are nature,
absolute and pure

let us not forget
who we truly are

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

The cloak turned over
The cloak that clouds it all
A shield against the authenticity
Last night turned over deliberately
The words with indifference
The face with unmindfulness
Shook them at the core
Yet their own hidden delusion
Struck them the most
Cruel they found inauthenticity
Critical I discovered the irony

The ocean floor is littered with whale bones
Ivory dreams that sink forgotten amongst silt
The fish swim in between ribs like birds flitter through mine
Asphalst graveyards lined with tiny carcasses
Where once survivalists and now just carrion
I saw a signpost for a crematorium and thought of
The way your hand burns against my cheek
Everything on heaven and earth is eaten by sunlight and decay
In the distance there are trees being felled
I hear nothing and so pretend they have not died
But I can feel their groaning bodies, I can feel the axe swing
In my sharp exhale when you put your palm to my knee
If I close my eyes I see the temples that used to stand here
Where once we prayed to Gods and now buy coffee
The prayer on our lips much softer now
But I still feel like a sacrifice when you kiss me
A pyre dream, quick as flame and soft as smoke
Who's dreams do I carry with me in this life?
Who's aching heart do i remember when the wolf howls?
I witnessed birds die midflight and fall by the hundreds
My atoms rocked into memory of their first journey
Spread across a thousand stars that crashed into yours
Became then the fish that was born between whale ribs
How many lives do I carry inside of me?
What histories lie beneath my feet?
Who's bones am I standing on right now?
Who's deaths will fall like ash atop mine?

of all the love
and hate,
we are all
going
to the last word

End.