Through an artist’s eye
A thousand word poem
Whittled down to a
A black and white image,
An apricot
So ******
It makes me cry,
Is permanently installed in the main gallery
Of the museum of my consciousness.

I remember that day
as if it was a painting-
two giggling little girls
wearing party dresses,
cautiously feeding horses
carrots and dandelions
from open hands.
The sky is vast and blue;
woods and fields
dress in every green there is.

The songs of meadowlarks,
raucous calls of crows
and the humming of honeybees,
crawling all over the clover
blend into intricate harmony
while a herd of a hundred horses
swish tails and shake manes
at buzzing flies.
The little girls laugh every time
a horse’s lips tickle their hands
in search of another dandelion.

Turning the pages of Sunday’s paper,
eyes spilling tears upon reading
of the ambush killing of a local cop,
and  elsewhere, cops as killers,
the horror of the murders
of twenty angels and their guardians
at a small-town school,
people just having a holiday party,
going to a movie,
people attending church, for god’s sake.
I make my way to the sports section,
that fantasy-land of touchdowns,
home runs and slam dunks,
only to find stories of drunken outfielders
and homicidal/suicidal linebackers
wielding pistols
followed by a half-page ad
for the Guns and Gear store,
urging me to get in on the deals—
an assault rifle, only $649.99,
semi-automatic pistols from $319 to $549,
all the ammo a person could need
to shoot up a school, a theater, a mall, a business,
a synagogue or mosque or church,
even an army base.
My sorrow vinegars to frustration and anger,
that my letters to so-called representatives
must be written on thousand dollar bills
to even get a reading,
answered by a staffer’s reply that says nothing,
and, in the end, dear god,
I’m left with prayer and poetry,
the children of necessity, drowning in futility.

I say your poems aloud
six times,
speak your words
to the north,
to the south,
to the east and west,
raise my face,
say your poems to the sky,
lower my head,
say your poems to the earth,
sending your unique vibrations,
the ululation of your words,
not to a grave, but to the ether,
where there may be ears
unlike ears we know
that hear your words,
write them down again,
say a muse spoke to them
or know not from where a poem comes.

My advice is
live in a sweat, man,
intense:
moonlit skin is lovely,
no matter the color.
I say
Be open-eyed,
open-handed,
open-minded.
Microscope your telescope,
tune up your stethoscope,
run in rain,
willow in wind.
Jive in the jungle,
Jim.

Antarctica
let loose an iceberg armada,
enough ice cubes for ninety-nine zillion
pina coladas.
So have a couple, just chill, don’t spill,
as Earth keeps warming as you know it will.
You know it’s partly your fault,
but don’t sweat the gestalt,
just add some more salt
to the glass rim of your next margarita
while you ponder the meaning of Karma.
Though we all pay the bill
for the oil and coal we drill,
you can feel fortunate if you live mid-continent
and get the Manitoba/Minnesota discount-
less firewood to cut,
an early start to your garden-
while coastal dwellers have floods in their cellars,
the Eskimos lose all their snow,
rising tides leave drowned ocean islands
and islanders with no place to go.