As sere as the Nevada Moraine surrounding me My pen drips dust and sometimes sand- And mud if wetted with my tears Of longing and frustration.
The winds of war are howling As the universe turns inside out with all the wrongness being done. Mother Nature has picked up her skirts and flounced away in fury That is costing endless lives And devastation planet wide… While my pen seeks its navel.
My wit, became a brilliant crayon In realities now scorching sun, Leaving Rally in a melted pool Instead of banners on the wall. It turned my fingers crimson.
Where the splint or plaster cast To support the flagging wordage As it dribbles from my pen and Seeps away into insouciance While the darkest corner of my mind Cries out for help and world salvation. My pen’s, become a giant sieve, stained By what’s poured in and through, With only dampness left behind, The stuff that mud is made from. ljm