Is the day perfect  
if there are no birds to wake you  
but there is lemonade?  

or if you live on Lemonade Street  
but there are no birds on electric lines  
because the utilities are underground.  

no birds twittering in trees  
just the sweet sour taste  
of lemonade puckering your mouth  

the scent of bonnie braes in the air,  
standing still in a pitcher of ice water,  
tangy, acidy,  
still sweeter than most.  

My neighbor,  
who is always preening and  
chatting up the neighbors,  
makes hers with bubble gum bursts and *****,  
a lemon drop of punch drunk love.  

If I want birds and trees  
I just walk across the street  
to the older neighborhood with telephone poles—  
some line birds,  
but mostly garden gnomes and bird baths.  

My dog delights in yanking me there,  
scattering the conferences  
of cardinals and jays in mid song  
from worm feast  
to the trees.  

Here, old men and women  
in shorts and summer dresses,  
holding citron nectar  
in tall glasses with seeds, rind and pulp,  
delight in their perfect day  
filled with lemonade and birds.  

I don’t know anymore  
if they are thrilled with the trill  
or fed up with the cacophony  
of untuned bird calls,  
birds in all the trees where they belong,  
silent at night.  

Deep in the forest  
filled with leaves,  
I suppose their diamond-throated song  
is a mournful dirge  
for when a tree falls  
silently, deadly in the green.  

One day our small community saplings  
will bloom,  
and the days will be filled  
with the miracle of birdsong  
and drinking lemonade  
on Lemonade Street.

my world is large
Monsters thrive on all grounds
across the whole globe

erasing the trace of my past
erasing the path to my future
Monsters thrive

i may be small
but i require vastness to thrive
i don't get the chance to thrive

these Monsters are Humans
They destroy my home
and destroy my hopes of living

i'm just a tiny insignificant butterfly
i have no ability to fight
but the battle has already been lost

i'll die along with the rest of nature
as hope which developed in a cocoon
flies away like a butterfly - myself

Red hot glory
Is what I see in the morning
Inner halo of angelic light
Or perhaps a phoenix in flight
Feathers ablaze
Leaving a trail of grass covered in a fiery glaze.
Dimly lit fingers beckoning out
Reaching toward those filled with self-doubt.
A shooting star
A landed wish to end the universal war?
Surrounded by its family
An asteroid belt that impacted softly in the soil upon landing?
A family of blazing light
And morning's glory
That's meant for soaring
The very inspiration for what the Sun's got
Looks so out of place in this parking lot.

I forgot the name
of my old town
and the familiar
dialogues
spoken by the
tooth-missing
oldtimers,
whose skin
was leathered
by the Sun.
Stories written
on their faces
got lost somewhere
on the alleys,
where peddlers
used to
trick kids
into buying
colorful cotton candy.
Grandma’s cat
had gobbled its
last can of sardine
long ago, yet
its languid yarn
still faintly lingers
in my memory.
I see old phantoms
wander between
gleaming skyscrapers
and highways,
where their
homes were
buried
underneath.