clouds roll across the sky
in an overture heralding the coming of
storms, of flashes of light in a spectacle of
natural birth and suicide. thunder rips apart the
fabric of the heavens, leaving seams unsewn to rain
upon the damp earth agape. were it that sunshine was rare,
that amber light shone only through the darkness of stratocumulus
and curtains of raindrops would we beg the tempest to stay.
trees tremble in the prelude of wind knowing that they
must too bow down to the deluge. the first ripples on the
water paint labyrinths over duckweed and tadpoles, the afterbirth
of the floods, so does petrichor. that fragrant herald of life
and destruction place itself in fractals throughout the golden
air, filigree all but invisible to verse, and the poet that creates it.

it could be just a drizzle, nature watering her creation
the only electricity the excitement of the mosses and ferns
to recieve communion again. the war-drums of thunder may not
sound, only drops falling on water in a steady
percussive rhythm hypnotizing and maddening, accompanying
the wind blowing the trees in a millenia-old melody.
this poem could only be Romantic musings of the grand
memories of an antediluvian hurricane that never
occured or was witnessed, images and sounds that can
never be seen or heard, known by storms.

the wild daisy blooms in May,
warm soil nurturing, the dampness springing forth
turkey tails and fly agaric.
from this soil happiness sprouts too,
in the form of sweet exchanges,
awkward mishaps,
sincere confessions.
you are the May sunshine and the rain,
which makes my heart and mind blossom.
and may we step barefoot on the cool dewy grass,
and embark on this journey together

sunlight illuminates the butterfly's blue wing,
as it soars reaching the sky,
an Icarus that carries me on its delicate body.
shimmering azure beauty,
take me to your home,
where I may sing,
my voice the wind,
the accompaniment her words.

I have seen the way that you treat your kind,
lead piercing your brothers and sisters,
until you water me with ochre.
that you have become polluted with ideals of glory,
when you and your "enemy's" bones will fertilize my roots the same.
for three thousand years I have stood here,
seen generals fall, heroes rise,
and they all rot in the damp soil,
from which I feed.
do the kings and infantrymen not give themselves up,
to vultures and ravens circling above?
you call bloodshed greatness,
but you have sown a gory orchard.

fleeing the smoke,
the phoenix looks for new embers,
where she can be reborn.
emerging from the flames,
she raises two chicks,
straddling Pompeii's plain and Eden.

Vesuvius erupts again,
chaos, violence, unrest.
40 million in pain,
covered by the mud of corruption and insensitivity.
she looks back at her home,
and recognizes the cycle.

this slimy beast of war,
feeding on blood and tears,
on anger and sorrow,
grows fatter and fatter with each rubber bullet,
each canister of gas and molotov cocktail.
born from a leaf of coca,
it feasts on the bodies,
of children and adults alike.

and as she flies over the land,
the phoenix calls for the rain to vanquish the beast for good.

keep your hands off of me,
and do not look at me with ravenous eyes,
seeing me for only my body.
my life is mine to live,
not entertainment for you to
watch and play out your fantasies.
my coca-cola is not your place
to find opportunities to subdue,
to sedate.
my cocktail dress is not what drives you to
violence, it is you.
nor should my identity be like a baseball card,
meant to collect and brag about.
we should be safe wherever we go,
not fear keeping us from celebrating, doing what we love.
teach your daughters to use their voice,
and teach your sons to respect it.

young child,
who hangs her head in shame,
do not be afraid.
for you have a voice like a tiger's roar
commanding respect with your ideas.
lift your chin high,
and ignore those who say you are too small
too weak
do not matter.
is it not the children that create
that we owe our pasts and future to?
sweet girl, you keep our legacies within your imagination,
and it is up to you to decide whether you remember us as
friends or foes,
creators or destroyers.
so do not bend to the sound of "you are too young",
this world is yours to keep,
we are only using it,
until we are  dust and bone,
blown away by the wind.