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
always stays
in the immortal heart.
Nothing’s perfect
just what appears to be
but even those things
one day must fade
every bit taken away
– the only power within those
seemingly perfect things is
that for one brief moment,
they really had been.
She welcomed the end of summer’s oppression,
the pressure under, over, everywhere
having cooked her from within.
In summer, the sun weighed down
disheartening dreams,
while the wandering, distracted mind meandered
wished to be someplace else,
wished to be free
somewhere else
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,
light among darkness
just barely enough
to see you through.
Fairies, fireflies
neon garden in flight
a spinning vortex
circling till the end of time.
In the battlefield of right and wrong,
matters not whose weak, whose strong.
Truth has its own strength,
tougher than ignominy, harder than steel.
You can trust the misfits more
than people who are cool,
the ones who always fit in,
able to change skins
like chameleons on catwalks.
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.
