Somewhere beyond the hast of commerce,
where noises sing rather than shout.
I know of a place under a canopy of emerald leaves, haloed in the sun.
Creatures come to crawl and fly, soaking the bounty growing natural.
Moments of stillness blow soft, carrying stresses away.
It's a place owned by the trees, they bend to greet travelers weary of their cage.
A place I long to stroll,
where summer kisses all that lives
and wildness sprouts within
A happy place
The forest behind my neighbor’s garage
Is ten feet wide and thirty feet long
But is full of different types of life
In summer the leaves grew full and thick
Filling the space with shades of green
The ground is dark and mysterious
But in winter the spires of lean saplings
Poke out of bright snow in numbers
Like pins in a white cushion for grandma
The cardinals glide through
The squirrels hide nuts
The finches flutter
All in plain view of my kitchen window
The forest behind my neighbor’s garage.
This ground is hard and cold;
Streets are empty,
But not the houses.
There people stir and peer
At me from ***** windows.
A gray ghost, I pass quickly
On long legs and silent paws
To hunt the city's rabbits at dawn.
A tribute to a forlorn coyote seen on the outskirts of Chicago.
between the cottage
and bustling factory a
fountain flows in peace
Crosses on the windows
Why must you divide the view?
The outside world is not divided into sections
It is instead, one giant pane
Being objectified by humanity
It's future ***** and unclear
People may be hired to clean you,
but the major issues are stained
Beyond recognition, so filthy
I wonder if we will ever
gaze upon a clean and open
window ever again
I hope we cure Earth in the near future.
Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending eight hours a day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup
A whimsical corollary to my previous poem, Soup for Squirrels.