People sit on their ***** and moan,
throwing words like stones at shadows.
They write poems filled with nothing
no light in the dark,
no mirror to the soul,
no love for the hummingbird
or the bee.

Just more moaning.
This politician. That one.
Mona, Mona, moan.
A parade of little monkeys
squatting by a muddy river,
scratching their bums,
flicking poo across the stream
instead of feeling the sun
on their skin.

Where is the poem
that breathes with wonder?
That holds the air
like a newborn holds light?
That smells the flowers,
stands in the shade of a tree,
and says thank you?

We take too much for granted.

I don’t want to start my day
moaning about someone
who doesn’t even know I exist.
What good is a poem
that turns hearts bitter
and forgets the sky above?

I’d rather write beauty.
Write something that matters.
Something that smiles back.

Start with your own bubble.
Change what’s close,
what your hands can reach.
If you don’t like what’s there,
stretch out and change it.
That’s where meaning lives.

Go outside.
Touch the day.
Feel the wonder of difference
how strange and beautiful we are.
Walk on the beach.
Hold the air,
hold the sun,
hold the hand of someone
who does make a difference.

Life is short, dear friend.
Nothing is promised.
We take each other for granted
we take everything for granted.
When last did you let an ant
crawl across your hand
and just say, “Wow”?
Then gently place it back
where it came from?

Now we squash it.
**** it.
Feel like kings.
“Yeah, we showed it.”
But we show nothing.

I have my dogs
mommy and her two boys.
I’ve never seen a love so whole.
Yet we humans
we’ve lost the plot.
We moan and complain
instead of complimenting,
hugging,
offering food,
buying coffee for a stranger,
or just saying,
I’m glad you’re here.

We fixate on the wrong things,
throwing poo
when we could be planting trees.

Learn something.
Give something.
Grow something.

Acknowledge the bad — yes
but don’t live there.
Don’t let your little rowboat
circle a storm
when just a few more strokes
could bring you peace.

Beauty waits quietly
on the front step.
You don’t need a plane ticket.
Sometimes it’s a bird’s song.
Sometimes it’s the breath in your chest.

So when the world moans
sing.

And mean it.