I am tired of the summer
With the assumption that warmth is good
Green is better
And a sunny day is the Cat’s Meow

Here is my assumption.
Summer kills when
Angry throngs riot and loot
When one of theirs is brutally murdered by The Man

When the funny man hangs himself
And makes me want to do the same
When intolerant zealots demand -- Convert!
Or else die

When your legislator takes the summer off
Before completing their job
And when monsters
Take an innocent young life out of lust or convenience

It could be that summer really is a murderer
On the other hand, I may take it too seriously
I await autumn and its cool breezes
And less news

The Soul, my eternal interloper
Disciple of numerous incarnations
And admirer of the disembodied spirit
Cast from me, my dear

What are you good for?
For I truly do not understand your counsel
My Albatross in life
Shadowy in death

I wait for a glimpse of your light
How do I draw the curtains to
Enlightenment
How many more manifestations?

Have you ever considered what the world would be like,
The day after you die?
For you, it has ended
For them, it goes on

On and on
The grass continues to grow, on and on
The sun still shines, on and on
Wars rage, on and on

Minute by minute
Family and friends grieve, minute by minute
The worried parent waits up late, minute by minute
Wars rage, minute by minute

Day by day
Family and friends live their lives, day by day
Hope for peace survives, day by day
But
War still rages, day by day

If I had but a wish
A reward greater than heaven
I would give
However, must you demand?

The Elephant ask that we leave them in peace
The seal asks us to lower the club
The trees ask for more time
But you ask for the world

The cold and weary ask for a blanket and a place to rest
The hungry ask for just a morsel
The abused ask for safe passage
You demand the world

The wind, calm as light penetrates the morning canvas
Not a sound, except for my defeated heart
That reverberates through my soul
The smell of the crimson red sky; cool sweet lilac and myrrh

Warns me of a tempestuous day
A heartfelt tiding of mediocrity
The greeting of your most irreverent facade
Has driven from me, any appreciation of a summer dawn

I have not the strength to summon a thought
Or a thought
Or a thought
Or a thought

Maybe a kind word
Will lift this veil
And allow me the strength
For a thought

I remember looking up at the tree tops
The wind blew and lifted the great leafy branches
Up and down
As if fanning Pharaoh in his magnificent palace
I can feel the prickly heat of that day
When I was five
You told me that she would not be coming back
I think that is when I first wanted to die

Is a poem contrived, less a vision?
The sweet words that fall short
That has no joining to the soul
Is still a poem; orphaned and solitary

We force it out, the three stages of literary childbirth
Stillborn stanzas
Severe are the shrieks
How long must we grieve over the forgotten verses?