Cursed earth, always at war,
a field for violence and pain.
The poor, dead and buried
in shrouds the same
as what was worn
for nights and days
with no choice for change.
No one for these deaths
ashamed, except the powerless
always expected to have shame.
The earth trembles for so many lives
that the heavens can’t partake,
yet humanity stands with its
as lives extinguish
coming to ground,
bodies black, white, and brown
all reddening the ground as they fall.
The good earth screams,
beware this treading over sacred lines
and of this doing with no shame,
leading to an irreversible idling of being
and the return to the
primitive part of the brain
which revels in violent games.
A woman scribbles with movement of her pen
is able to change what’s unpleasant
describes only water dripping below
birds singing above
a melody forcing her ear to pay homage
as she writes of sun rays lighting
earth with yellow, green, blue
all the while avoiding thoughts of the virus
raging outside or asking if pandemic
will bring humanity to its knees
Of tears, exclusion, pain
among the darkness
sometimes comes the ray
from lives of tumult
the turning of pages
pen to paper to survive memory
with this, books are made
Yes, death does come for all
for every summer,
there must be a fall
but we always leave
a part of us in the world
and the part of the world
which was loved
in the immortal heart.
She welcomed the end of summer’s oppression,
the pressure under, over, everywhere
having cooked her from within.
In summer, the sun weighed down
while the wandering, distracted mind meandered
wished to be someplace else,
wished to be free
where she was listened to, was esteemed,
someplace else where she never had to fear
being suspect for being something less than ideal
a place she wanted to welcome on hot skin
like a perfectly cool breeze.
When you think it can’t,
that it won’t come
with nothing in sight,
just night in front of you,
it does comes through
the smallest strand of
light among darkness
just barely enough
to see you through.
neon garden in flight
a spinning vortex
circling till the end of time.
Saturday’s ritual, discourse and diners,
talking while walking to our
regular place, The Green Kitchen.
Exiting the pressure cooker,
worries are left at the door.
Havoc halts as we talk, laugh, breathe.
Forgetting brimming calendars,
it’s solace, just you and me,
fresh silverware, an easy cup of coffee.
Whenever you are dismayed,
your heart steering you towards
hating people who betrayed,
try to grasp at any shred
any thread that you can use
to find your way back
to the fount of forgiveness
to the freedom that is love.
I wish I didn’t think of you every time
I ate ice cream but I’m reminded
of the ritual of dinners on Fridays
and the ice cream afterwards.
If only vanilla or strawberry had sufficed
we wouldn’t have had that fight.
We could have continued
to talk and laugh and thrive
a whole world left for us to explore
though to traveling with me,
you always said no.
Simply put, simple flavors never interested you.
Everything you wanted had to be the best,
complex, like cookies and cream
with chocolate sauce, butter pecan with
whip cream on top, little edible masterpieces
for the world to see, while my scoop of
strawberry made you to scoff.
Still, you didn’t understand
why I asked us to part.
What point did you see? How would you possibly
ever have learned the truth about me,
that I’m predictable, simple, and sweet,
just like a scoop of strawberry ice cream.