How I’ll Cure the World

I will write the demons,
the silent screams and tears,
the groundless, and not so groundless, fears
accumulated like mismatched luggage.

No fancy suit bag here,
just battered baggage
scarred and damaged,

the ugly rumblings of griffins
and goblins, the predators
with twirled mustaches,
vile breathed and detached.

I will write the shadows
that smother the sun,
the smog and the pollution,
the pestilence of intimidation,
the bias of discrimination,

I will write the smack, the crack,
the booze, the pills, the pain,
the insane refrain that does not dwindle.

I will write it all
then crunch it up
into a vulgar ball
and burn it.

Poet

first
run through fire
without fear
of blisters
walk barefoot on gravel
without
forming calluses
or questioning
the wisdom
bathe in moonlight
without shyness
or shield
expect rejection
for surely
it will come
embrace it
and move on
only then
can one claim
the name

A Retreat, Not a Surrender

I thank my lucky stars
for midnight walks,
for mango moons,

and let’s not forget
opposable thumbs
that heal when hurt.

I’m thankful for this tea
that warms me like a poem writ’
with soul and mind in tune.

I’m thankful for moments
of silence that teach me
how to listen.

On this rainy day
when the breeze is warm
and the pines are emerald green,

I’m thankful for most everything,
even the cantankerous poet
who circles in the square

reading his work with a growl.
Gloves on,  gloves off.  Exempt
from apprehension

and the cloak of fear.
That’s the way life is here…
no cabbages or kings,

just poets and their pens
delivering peace and love
and a spattering

of sarcasm on pages oft’ recycled.
A meeting  of minds,  sometimes  heads butt
but please, spare me the paper cuts.

More Splendid than Byzantium

No fantasy,
this mossy forest floor,
the decay, the spoor,
the symmetry and artistry
that cushions sole and soul.

The tiny wren
or lowly sparrow, no golden bird
on golden bough.  This song
is real – a trill
that’s born of being.

No drunken merriment
pollutes the air.  No shining
armor here.  All highs
and lows
are measured by the trees.

The breeze a voice
that comforts weary  travelers.
The spirits here are friendly,
complex without complexity.
No artifice in this eternity.

‘Life’ in the Pitch Dark Middle of a Noon Storm

Part highway, part pothole:
part my way? Not necessarily
but that would be nice too.

Every day is not always a poem
but it should be. The failure is ours
if we can’t see it.

“La vie est plus belle que les idèes”
(Life is more beautiful than the ideas.)
My thoughts are as dark as noon.

Nature loves mixed metaphors, but
a poet can’t get away with that.
Maybe it’s true what “he” says:

**The eye sees less than the tongue says,
The tongue says less than the mind thinks.
The poet is the priest of the invisible**

With nothing about life decided,
the storm has passed; the power is back on.
Go figure.

**Random quotes from Stevens’  Adagio

Reconnoitering the Perimeter

Wildflowers
have cast their seed
on this rocky spot.

Here, where mankind’s
industry conspired to kill
nature’s beauty,

where concrete slabs
covered irises and bluebells
and toppled

mighty trees, scarring
the face of the land, here
good Earth reclaims her rights.

Rust and stone, unyielding
until a seed borne on a vagrant wind,
and another, and then another one

gathered to make a garden plot,
a paradise created by God’s own hand,
here, in the unlikeliest of places.