the time has stopped

the time has stopped.  there is a new thing around.  it bites the soft

parts, the tender flesh first.  woe to the sea otter and the polar bear.

 

warm wind is here.  the ice drips. the rain, the smog, the blue rainbow.

the sun shattered the clouds and made a spectrum appear. 

the bright colors moved as one and many. they dove into

each other, and left no mark of entry.  swirls and lines, and animals of light

squint the eyes, look.  the seed is planted, energy, the particle wave

the refraction, the consumption. there is no center in the yellow and red

and blue, violet and green, pale pinks

interwoven, vibrate and fluctuate. Mingle meander with the fresh and old, what light

can do, so we can hold. Brief, warm, and alive.

 

This dampness is not a pickle if given plenty of light. 

 

6.8 billion

A baby kicked out.The sun is in.Everyday we are a newgroup of cells.Today, surprisingly, I am.

Gross old bird

 

what happened? 

you were here,

sleeping and I touched you.

you were awake, and I had to stop.

you left. I could not touch you again.

This is not so friendly. 

What if love does remain a crane? 

A gross thousand years dead and still some sick bird

 yet to beak down and give up.

 

 

The rocks move too slow see them continue. 

Damn the wine, it taste like vinegar.

Hope must have climbed in, rattled old

despair and spoiled the whole batch. 

 

What did youth do with you,

 that made hope linger silent.

This rare ability to laugh

at pain is bound in humanity. 

Find it and you lose self respect and gain

the old shadows of  childhood.

The dandelion first bite.

The sweet clover suck,

The honeysuckle sip.

The milkweed rub.

The first sweet pea pop

 from your first little garden. 

First realization: life is fucked

Run To Keep Up

the wind picked for a day or so, then left,

 

I sent my poems and hair in the air

if you are out  and you feel a old thing

settling, it is me.  I play at your walk, smile

at your face, old friend you are beauty to a hobo.

 

 

Lake, do you remember?  The rattled men sail you

lonely for a woman to comfort their

bodies. It is not so abstract to follow

someone into their words and silences.

Wait for them to open in light.  Take a long walk

or listen to their song before you knock on their door.

 

 

Like a small olive.

you’ll yearn for others.

Your distinct character will break

 

This is a problem

for those without faith.

Let us sit, watch the lake.

 

If you have a calling, respond quickly.

There is no need to ponder.

you’ve found your way, now get on,

let rhyme make you.  

It takes so much to slime to the right destination.

here you are, you know the direction,

the point on the map.

Stop doubting your doubting, and wondering

your wondering. 

 

The mountain stretches and a new wall is built

it is not 1986, nor is it in China. 

A new division to mildly mine people.

jump over it.

 

 

 

a person must be still to see the bird.

but to see a thousand one must fly.

I am not comin down from here,

you go ahead, and stay on the ground.

Run to keep up.  

blow the condo

 

The wind does not mean a thing.

Let it come and blow the condo. 

I have no attachment to city dwelling.

 

My home is north

 

Where are the dragon tails and flower gabbers,

the velvet leaves and old lilac issues

the golden finch and blue birds  in  swoop and hum?

 

There is crystal creek that winds through.

A wall of sandstone,

stacked and arranged by grandfather’s hand.

The cedar, which we would cut, is growing heavy.

The cool sweet smell.  A child again.  Run and play

in woods, ramble with the black lab. 

 

Go in grandma’s basement and help

her wring the clothes through the old washer.

The ice cold water on fingers.

Follow her around the house

as she make the beds, clean the curtains,

mop the floor, vacuums,

dusts everything.  Have lunch by 11:30.

 

Grandpa comes in, smiles, laughs so easy.

Says some joke that excites the word in you.

Yell, “This is best meal ever grandma, isn’t grandpa.”

It is venison, peas fresh from

the garden, and a little egg.

Some white bread from the local

bakery. Heaven, umm. 

Peppery, and salty the meat.

The peas, summer. The little egg

fresh from a little chicken.

The bread with butter.

 

 

The news will be on,

then the polka, you will dance.

Grandma and grandpa will watch,

enlightened to see you,

and you, them.

 

 

 

 

There is no place for dreams of the past. 

So I dream a future. Lately its been hard.

 

The light in the  sky has changed. 

There is more blue and pink,

a slight green. Have you noticed?  I am sure

that you will some early morning

when you walk into your office.

Perhaps you look back once to see me drive

away, and light will hit you. 

 

 

We are in a town, where everything is brand new. 

the buildings, the cars, none of these strangers where born here.

 

I never gave a damn for city living.

I have lived close to the land. 

Here, I can’t find it. 

The soil belongs to business and condos

The poetry that comes out of this

 speaks of the dead world. 

I can’t find  a seed in pavement. 

 

 

 

 

This could all be alive.

However it is not. 

It is dead. They killed,

whoever built these streets and houses,

the suburbia nightmare killed the prairie first.

 

Now, I know why the kids go Goth.

 It is too quiet. 

There’s no reason to ruckus about. 

Not a chipmunk in sight,

Not a green promise of Leopold. 

I was a telemarketer for two weeks.

I was a telemarketer for two weeks. 

There are three reasons’ why I don’t telemarket still.

First, a large woman who had a stinking problem

got a job there, and her desk was two in front of mine

 

Second, I’d rather write poems and paint with daughter

(My husband said it was ok to quit).

 

Thirdly, my favorite part of the job

was when a mad person would

cuss me out.  That was Holy.

The reason why I called, and repeatedly

tried to sell the junk. 

It was incredible to learn not all

Amerike’s are stupid. 

 

Most are good, kind, even patient

in the ear of a stranger

who is eroding humanity, purposely

paid to deride the mind.

But some, some will tell you to fuck off.

I relished when I woke people up. 

Their voices were small

with the morning. I had never called

strangers.  Or heard so many melodious

hellos, early morning grogs.

O the delicate peace

they answered with. 

I robbed their inner world

without their knowledge. 

I echoed sounds that only

family and lovers had mirrored.

The citizens only knew I

was enough of a dredge, I wrecked sleeps.

So I quit.  I never really wanted to be a cat.