The white cells,
seemingly not fearful of  
oozing,
festering,
metastasizing,
fear black cells,
wearing hijabs or dreads.
The white cells
are fearful of the brown cells
that **** and process their chickens
and mow their lawns for them.
The white cells fear the red cells
though they like moccasins, canoes,
and wild rice soup,
fear yellow cells
may be smarter than them
so they label them
***** and Chinks.
The white cells  
don’t seem to mind
asphalt-coating,
starlight-stealing,
convenience store sprawl
devouring healthy green cells--
alfalfa cells,
forest cells,
swampy, boggy cells,
black-eyed susan cells.
The Chamber of Commerce
calls it growth,
progress;
but this town
needs a tourniquet,
maybe chemotherapy.

I wake early.
You sleep beside me.
The taste of your pink butterfly
lingers on my tongue,
on my lips and mustache,
coats the inside of my mouth.
My nostrils still smell it,
my fingers smell of it.
I write this poem
while your butterfly is cocooned,
its fleshy pink wings folded
around my whispers and moans.

Dude,
you were born
with a phone in your hand,
thumbs twitching.
I was born with a pencil,
a scrap of paper,
an envelope,
a stamp

and patience

I hope you notice
you're reading this on-line.

She’s perched a small pumpkin
on a candle stand atop the kitchen table--
an autumnal centerpiece.
Though it’s close to Halloween,
no jack-o-lantern face grins at you,
no flaming eyes flicker.
This little pumpkin does not move, of course;
there are no miniature horses to pull it
like a coach from the castle at midnight
and no fairy tale slipper has fallen from it.
This pumpkin is more a lesson,
a how-to on silent meditation,
a guide to learning to be what you are,
to live within your pumpkin-ness, as it were.

Eyes wide but life-less,
unfocused,
she stares out the plastic window
of her sealed box house
like someone depressed,
glassy eyes watching  a tv
that may or may not be turned on.

In her back is a key hole,
a mechanism to animate her
in some pseudo-human way,
to speak simple words of need,  
shed tears of frustration and sadness
that she must depend on another
for what little life she has—
a toy taken out, then put away
at the whim of someone
who only wants to play, or worse,
merely place her on display.

e     T    h
                                                    c     ­                 i
                                              ­   a                            s  
                                ­                 r                            M
                                                  G             ­             i
                                                  ­    e                   g
                                                          B    ­t     h



                                                            ­                      

My heart quickens
           as a ragged skein
                 of Canada geese flies
                                         silhouetted
                                                benea­th a full moon hanging
                                                         ­      in a blue Minnesota winter sky.
                                                            ­   When a bald eagle
                                                         flies into the scene
                                  to further confound my senses,
                              I think this may be more
           than serendipitous coincidence.


                  t
                    h
        ­               i
                        s
                     might be
                         g
                        r
                       a
                     c
                    e

Dang it!  I just can't get the top of this to line up.  Any suggeestions?

I’ve read the advice of the sages,
about being present in the present,
accepting what is for what it is,
but it hasn’t stopped raining for three days
with three more days of rain forecast;
this, after a winter that has lasted into April.
I’ve got cabin fever
and there doesn’t seem to be enough Zen,
enough rhythmic breathing,
enough yoga or tai-chi in the world
to still my pacing room to room,
my constant glancing out the window
toward the garden, untilled,
where I envision myself on my knees,
my hands dropping seeds in tiny furrows,
then covering them with soil and prayer.