August. Ugh.
Waiting on the brink.

Are we really Indivisible?
Perhaps just a small divide
Bridged by the common good
Because we are more purple
Than leaders want you to believe.

When American symbols are backhoe-d
into the history books,
and our neighbors to the north
use our own past Presidents to remind
our current President of things
that don’t work,
the common American, regardless
of education or socio-economic
status rolls his eyes and thinks,

“What a dolt we have.”

Should we divide over dolt-ery?
Should we battle our brothers over corruption?
Should we pay taxes to grifters?
Should the house be cleaned?

Not 1984. Imagine.
The East Wing torn down,
The Big Grift underway.
Sue the Justice Department,
Buy a Ballroom
Cheapen the country
with the gold.

Ethics, a sly fox skulk, vanished
on Inauguration day.
Who will find them
and bring them home?

We miss them.

It’s worse.
It’s far worse.
It’s far worse still.
It’s not as bad as it will be.

House doors are closed
Children are herded
and shackled.
But don’t take Tylenol
for this headache.

Black hawk flights
Hippies in ICE ties
Leaders laugh at sombreros
High courts on high counts
Lawless President
Devious lackeys
SPEAK UP

Or forever hold your peace.

Can we make it one more day,
One more news cycle,
One more “two lies and a lie” day?

In 1250 A.D. the Seventh Crusade
ended in defeat. Smacked down.
No more King Erik Eriksson either.
He died. What a shame.

And what will happen in Ukraine
today? Should we hold our breath
and wait for Western strength?
Can David defeat Goliath?

But who actually is Goliath
these days?

But maybe the cats haven’t been
eaten, nor the dogs turned into morsels.
Perhaps those infamous files
Hold the truth that will save us.

*Zelensky and Western Allies meet at White House
to avoid surrender.

Epstein.

Enough already. Lie no more
No one believes the mess
Not that many ever did.

No one believes the mess
Our children will not believe
we let it come to this

Our children will not believe
How easily so many were duped
How easily people went along.

How easily so many were duped
It’s happened historically; just check
We are not immune to ignorance

It’s happened historically; just check.
What a mess we find ourselves in
Enough already. No more lies.

If you call a 51-50 they wrap the soul
in a straightjacket and haul them off
for help and protection.

Who is calling out the 51?
All the hospitals will be closed
for miles around and the little
boy cried for the man on the moon.

And the 50 went to work
to build new roads
and try to save the starving
children.

*Senate passes the BBB of shame.

Big Ugly Bill.
Not Uncle Bill who once took all the kids
to the drive-in theater on a Santa Ana wind-tossed
evening in Azusa.
Not the Buffalo Bill who beat the rap
at least once, but not ultimately.
Not the 42nd Bill who did well but
still screwed up
Not Billy Bob who built an outhouse
out of pallets and laughed at the slat holes.

The Big Beautiful Bill that starved the children
and murdered unvaccinated millions.

Bombs!

Bombs away!

This is not your great grandfather’s war.
This is not Korea or Vietnam.
Ukraine still fights
While bombs drop on Iran, Israel, Qatar

And what happens to Gaza’s people?
More bombs.
Make love not war

1968 and 1942 and 2025
Will the people rise?

A circus funhouse with distorted mirrors,
clowns with red ties and koolaide lips
bark bold untruths and misguided loyalty
to the ringmaster of reality television
streaming live from the Oval Office.

“Calm down,” they say, “he’s not that bad,”
as the cotton candy crystalizes and
caramel apples rot from the inside out.

“What will become of us?”
asks the carny as he hangs
from the trapeze and the
roustabouts in their red hats cackle.

Sickened by the arrogance,
the “they should be grateful”
attitude of a smug, paid sycophant
who doesn’t understand that
the Statue of Liberty is the
sign of gratefulness to Americans
who should be humbled to receive it.

Who is this generation of unchallenged
whiners who think the 1950s,
Leave-it-to-Beaver living actually
represents the vast majority or
that we want to go back to that episode?

They seem hardened by defending
their social media “Likes”
or false mandate they claim.
Perhaps she needs a real
challenge before the epiphany hits

that she’s offering followers
a beachfront condo built by
a charlatan in Hades.

Carolina fires burn as bombs
drop on Ukraine.
Winter cold sneaks through
the walls as bricks fall
from democracy’s wall.

What deranged demon
holds us hostage?

If I plucked my eyes out,
Stuffed pebbles in my ears,
or simply avoided the news,
I might stop feeling the dread.

Yet, I find it difficult to escape
the constant and awful press.
Blindly, hundreds of millions applaud
while I see what is coming.

Regardless of the man’s intent,
he alienates more amd more daily.
What they want so badly is a man
he will never be.

Bad days sicken the soul–
the favorite team loses, the dog
gets hit by a car, the price of eggs
hovers near ten dollars a dozen

And the country is lost.
Not lost in the eyes of the stupid,
Not lost to the oblivious,
Lost nonetheless.

When it hits the unaware,
The dam will have already burst,
And their cries to run,
will be swallowed up by the night.

Move today in order to move tomorrow;
Closing eyes or rolling over when hurdles rise
Speak constantly the truth to the corrupting power.

Ask the questions and push for answers
despite the surely, blatant grifts and lies
Move today in order to move tomorrow

Half the populace said, “Amen”, and purple thumbs went up
To usher the charlatan in, but you, you
speak constantly the truth to the corrupting power.

As wave after wave of disruption comes,
the floundering opposition wrings their hands. Listen:
Move today in order to move tomorrow.

The window closes faster as the storm approaches
and the courageous recede into the shadows.
Speak constantly the truth to the corrupting power.

Keep Canada, Mexico, Greenland, Israel and Gaza in your prayers,
and ask for strength for the sovereignty of each.
Move today in order to move tomorrow.
Speak constantly the truth to the corrupting power.

Robbers enter an open door
while sleeping children dream.
Upon the throne the emperor preens,
and laughs at peons as they scream.

As the chaos continues, stand your ground-
know your rights and fight.
Illegals and meals-on-wheels both
arrested.

Hurricane winds from the blustery pen
prove yet again that empathy has
suffered a near mortal wound.

But don’t pack up unless
it is to head to defend
the Constitution. She needs you.

Now the fun begins.
Cancel †he good, impose the will of the snake.
The Snake cares not of the people’s fear,
he does not know or understand the history
that makes the fear so.

Build that emotional barricade needed
to withstand the onslaught that began hours,
no, elections, ago.

Mud flung against the wall splatters
American carnage across the fruited plains–
Nothing holds the center as underground they go.

Set sail across the Gulf of America,
an uncharted water roiling with vitriol
and retribution but also hidden dolphins.

You know, dolphins, creatures that know
when help is needed and which act
and dance until help comes.

“When we find ourselves in times of trouble,”
(and woman and man, oh boy, do we now)
knuckle down, Sweetheart. Knuckle down.

More than ever, pay attention
to the flurry as the drifts grow,
and plan to shovel, then melt, snow.

Concrete the boundaries of your inaction.
Ready the mind, and pen, and voice–
Write the songs of the resistance.

Be the people who save the house
when fire laps at its door.

Like those little Mandrillus marauders

swinging ever so silently

through the canopy of  trees,

Poetry themes dangle quietly

from my frontal lobe–

Often dropping to their deaths

in sleep’s dark abyss.

I have turned the lights off.
Winter Holidays are through.
Very little remains undone except
those thoughts of you and you.

New Year enters unannounced
by those who matter most:
Little ones, exhausted by gobbling
and unwrapping and imagining.

And then the In Memoriums begin.
Trailblazers, leaders, friends, family,
So many great lives now taking
their marks in the hereafter.

So I am planning my resolutions list,
and I will need help completing it.
Nothing can be done alone,
so says Hesse’s “Allein”

The implication is fix yourself
before trying to fix others.
“That’s my resolution,” I say
as I pack up the stockings and

dump the grenadine.

Allein by Hermann Hesse

“Es führen über die Erde
Straßen und Wege viel,
Aber alle haben
Dasselbe Ziel.

Du kannst reiten und fahren
Zu zweien und zu drein,
Den letzten Schritt mußt du
Gehen allein.

Drum ist kein Wissen
Noch Können so gut,
Als daß man alles Schwere
Alleine tut.”

English translation by a reddit user:

"All over the Earth 
Streets and Ways wend 
But they all have 
the same End.

By two or three 
you may ride and roam,
But the last step 
you take alone.

Thus there exists no Truth
as good as this known then 
that all that is hard
is done alone."

At tables all across the land
or on blankets, in tents, or camper vans,
we break bread with loved ones
and almost forget the moment
as ordinary.

But bite by bite the memories
form and with our palettes,
common or sophisticate,
we strengthen bonds not
limited to blood, but open
and heartfelt and forever grateful.
We honor our Grandmothers,
Grandfathers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
aunts, uncles, cousins
who care enough to share their table,
their tent, their talents, their time
with us.

I’ve never been to Ukraine
not east of Vienna–

I do not know the world
nor the customs of Kyiv

I have never seen a vinok
nor planted a sunflower

I can not pronounce many names
with all the ys and zs and -enkos

I see the cocktail makers in my mind
while their images stream daily

across the screens without screams
but rather stoic, somber resolve.

The metal fight rages as you prove
your mettle to the world.

No bombed building, no embattled bridge
deters the Davids of Ukraine

From the battle with Goliath.
I will root for you while you hold the line

and sling your stone for us.

Full and blue and blood moons
Harvest, Waning and Waxing,
they all return on some night–
But the last full moon of the year,
the pandemic years,
the beat-us-down-until
we-say, “No more” years,
has us right where we must be:
Humbled, grateful, searching,
eyeing the winter night,
brightened by reflected light,

Still in awe of her beauty
and charmed by the eerie sight.

A moth flit its last flit in the sink
just moments before I washed it down
the drain. I was not at all sad
nor sickened by the water burial.

Life has magnetism,
yet some life repels
the way a spider repels me

Bugs have astonishing parrying power
like, say, my neighbors to the north,
who quite effortlessly send me back
into the house as they flicker around
desperately trying to plant a winter garden
even amid the great drought.

I watch from behind the curtain
and consider when I can venture out again.
I see a hummingbird and open the door.

As the pandemic recedes, poems return
all proud of themselves
for surviving the plague
and puffed up with ego
for crawling out with the cicadas.

Now that is a funny word–

Is it sicada or kikadas
or something hissing
like a cricket

No matter. The poetry lives
on in our lives, beautiful
earth tones that wake us
from our deep slumber
and moves us toward light..

Two duck couples circle, swirling
the still river, waiting for the sunrise.
Unstartled by my stare, they glide,
my noise muffled by the window pane,
my stare, hidden by the elevation
of the house above the river’s edge.

Their play is my break.
Their day breaks into my hope.

Tiger Lilies begin to root
along the river’s edge. Shielded by
rocks and ragged wood borders,
the tentacles creep deep and sideways,
halting only when the hoe
whacks them in half.

That’s what you get when children
are set to the task of weeding–
complete undoing of your annual
efforts to grow a flower garden
to brighten your already bright
spring days and summer nights.

Naturally, most bulbs will survive the
hack job, and sooner than later
the grandchildren will be too busy
driving cars and finding mates
to weed a garden. Instead, they
will appear with bouquets.

I took flowers to my grandmother
once and she seemed surprised.
Cut flowers are quite extravagant,
she said as she pulled some crabgrass
from her lawn.

This will be too long for a social media post, but it won’t be a book. Who has energy for a book? Part of the problem is nutrition. Healthy nutrition and pandemics, forest fires, and car accidents do not really go together–at least in our house. They probably should because people need energy for this stuff. But I don’t want to think about food–anymore than I want to think about the world right now. Heck, I can barely think about who has to sleep on the couch tonight or why the heck did we forget to buy garbage bags at the store yesterday–and shouldn’t the hotel provide them anyway? Oh, yeah. We’re on day 11 in a hotel–the third, and with some luck, last hotel we’ll be in before we get to go home. Home. It’s still standing. I have envisioned going home about 20 times a day for the past week–but I’ve also envisioned losing our home at least that many times. And it wasn’t just my house or my neighbors’, but it was also my parents home and my sister’s home; they also have been evacuated. My sister returned home last night, only to be startled back into evacuation status again this morning. Sometimes, when I’m worried about other people, my situation doesn’t seem so bad–do you find that happens to you? There are so many people who have it worse than we do–almost 800 homes lost near us. That is astounding. Heartbreaking. That we need to stay away from our place for a few days more–or a few weeks more seems trivial in comparison. People, though, are still so kind. Plenty of people checking up on us, offering housing, asking, “Is there anything you need?” Well, I’m not sure what it is we need, short of being able to go home. We need that. But is it insensitive to say that when surrounded by so much loss? Anyway, thinking too much about it makes my head hurt. Work helps as a distraction, but I’ve a case of fuzzy brain–I hope simply the result of the stress of pandemic concerns and wildfires (oh, and my daughter-in-law’s totaled car on Friday–thanks for that anonymous truck driver on Hwy 17), makes everything feel like it’s working in slow motion. I’m actually surprised that I’ve been able to write this down since every time I’ve looked at a screen in the past couple of days, it makes me nauseous. There definitely isn’t a poem in me at the moment. More like some Five Guys french fries and Dr. Pepper.

Sometimes, I have soda. It’s not the end of the world, but it definitely feels closer. Hope you’re safe and well.

abab
right
away

cdcd
still
moon

efef
here
white

gg
below
full

Were it not for the wind
Were it not for the clouds
Were it not for the timing of the storm
As it beat against the window
Breaking the seal

Light flickering freely
in the darkening room
Catching the side view
of the dream that danced
about the ceiling of my mind

As the tiny bat flew in, frightened,
then perching behind the valance
only to be shewed out by a creature
One hundred times its size
waving a fire poker as if crazed.

Were it not for this,
the meek would be feared.

Example: that time I punched
Michael in the stomach
as we stood in the line
for the drinking fountain.
My second grade teacher,
Mrs. Brockhart, said I shouldn’t
have done that, and perhaps
I would not make that mistake
again if I lost my recess privilege.
I wanted to assure her that
it was no mistake, but she
assured me it was. After all,
I had no reason to be upset,
even though he had pulled the hair
of the girl in front of me,
and then turned to call
me a fat retard. A retard.

Inevitably, it happens.  Not planned,
Not timed, no forewarning.
Much like the time
I left the cover on the old
woman’s stovetop–
warped the steel
and felt like a heel. After all,
electric stoves with covers
were new to me, and I was too
embarrassed to ask–often the cause
of some mistakes. Like, the time
I told everyone they would
get paid the daily rate–
because everyone worked
on the same thing
on the same day
only to be told
some people were worth
less–boy was that a shock.

They do not happen daily, but
usually when I am in a hurry,
like when I hit the tree as I
backed out of an unfamiliar,
mountain driveway. That mistake
precipitated a lie, which often
is the case when mistakes
are made. Oh, and the time
I told a student he was special,
which ricocheted into weird,
never-put-myself-in-that-position
again moments. There was also
the time I turned down
the job at a high tech firm.
That little doozy cost me plenty
when their stock went public.
Plenty.

And then there’s this, a poem
which reminds me of my past
mistakes and doubles down on
the beat-yourself-up-once-more,
crawl that confession back
off the page, or just-forgive-yourself,
will ya? moments. For these,
I will have a hard time
hiding, ignoring, denying,
or simply accepting that
mistakes make life thick
with feelings. That socking it
to a second grader isn’t the
end of the world, but better
helped me define myself.
That fender-benders can lead
to new cars sooner than planned,
that encouraging special students
is okay even if they don’t get it,
that turning down a job
for the right reasons can lead
to a different kind of wealth,

That learning I liked poetry
while reading during recess,
and then writing a poem
fifty years later,
can dull the sting.

Laptops attract gnats at night
if the window is left open.
Once a moth entered,
like a cat burglar, but I caught it
dancing around my screen,
vying desperately for my attention,
or maybe, just wanting to
go through the illuminated pixels
to the daylight of tomorrow.

Maybe the moth wanted
to be the subject of this poem
that was supposed to be
about my mother,
It’s Mother’s Day after all.
But I can’t write something
that really captures my love
like Billy’s Lanyard did.

No, I am not about to detail
all of the perfections that she is.
That, of course, would take
volumes–and who has space
in the day of Marie Kondo
for volumes of anything,
even my thoughts of my mother
or our trips to see the world?

Traditional women model, lopsidedly,
 perhaps, the heart of the home through
meals and hugs and bedtime stories.

Modern women model, lopsided though it seems,
the value of education and applying knowledge
for societal influence and our collective betterment.

Mothers model both. Their children, reared with empathy,
kindness and grace, watch and learn
as the bread bakes, the kettle sings.

These women show their Anthonys or Athenas
how strength of mind is as valuable
as strength of will or heart.

These Modern Mothers are heroes
Doing more than ever before
For their children whom they adore.

For my friend and colleague, CB.

Capped off by the blinds, the view
from the bedroom window slightly
better than the view from the office–

Whirlwind of wonder as the sun’s
corona blazes down finally
on this spring Saturday of COVID 19.

And the child splashes through
her sprinkler with her beach ball
bouncing down the driveway.

Unaware, wave after wave of new protocols
and worries that threaten life
and livelihoods, the children splash

and splash.

Of course there is a live broadcast
of the poet sitting behind his cluttered desk
beside a window, Strunk and White,
or is that Spunk and Bite, propped up
literally over his shoulder. Literally.

And I, for the love of God,
cannot write a single line
without misspelling a word
or forgetting the stanza form
I am hoping to capture.

He just laughs and says,
“Be well.” And the world,
hunkered down like in the age
of Blitzkrieg or Sherman, again
sits silent awaiting his return.

I, then, mull over what it means
to write something of value,
something about love in
the age of COVID or why
our dog thinks he is royalty.

He being the dog, the Min-Pin,
who barely escaped the lethal
dose and found his way to ruling
our world, jealous only of the poet
and the toddler who take my time.

I thought it was a squirrel peeking
through the shutter slats;
but upon closer looking,
I thought I saw a cat.
It wasn’t any feral type-
perhaps no cat at all.
It may have been an opossum,
nude tail bearing all.

The strangest part of seeing
whatever it may have been
was the tiny cap upon its
head, a wee cloth bag
slung across its back–
with a curled, red ribbon trailing.

So, what happens to the rhyme
You ask? It will pop up here
or there. It is not about the
form so much, but the rabbit–
or the hare that scampered
from my window sill
at Christmas morning’s light
and stole all nostalgic
thoughts and dreams of singing
elfin mice. Those reindeer hooves
upon the roof, those Sears
and Roebuck toys, the advent calendar
ajar, all candy now enjoyed:
That smell! Oh my! It must have been
that nasty skunk outside
who peered within, then seeing us
let out his heavy sigh.

He left a stench that’s hard to miss
Impossible, for sure. And then I thought
of one more think–an unthought thought
in years: the skunk as oxymoron–
Its perfect stripes delight us,
despite its strong parfum.
Perhaps it wants a lovely home
like mine with kids and gifts
To celebrate and sing within, perhaps
he saw our tree and simply wanted in!

Pampered. That’s what it conjures.
Resting on the lap of an elite-
Nibbling on goose pâté-
even the accents are somehow absurd
Robed in holiday pooch wear
After having been bathed in
an oatmeal and lavender bath.

But not our dog. Hound that he is,
he bays at the skunk who has
waddled through the fence,
scent and scat trailing.

Our dog, now riddled with aged bones,
gray from brow to the tip of his tail-wagging.
bones, shaking from the cold of old age
with his litter mate, more sprite still dancing
beside him unaware of his teetering steps.
He bickers with her over meal scraps, and steps
unaware, through their excrement.
Then sleeps, for hours, in their doghouse
no longer afraid of the noises the rain makes.

And oh, how we love him.
He is a mess. He is the country we live in.
He has camped with us, and cuddled.
His youth fulfilled our young dreams.
But now, it is time to rest.
Too old to save–
but never too old to cherish.

A million words define the silence
as heat stoked winds circle within
canyon walls, broken by weather,
turned into stories in dancing firelight.

Ute and Navajo spirits lift us
into the night sky where we become
the constellations our grandparents
taught us about eons ago.

Red rocks form eerie faces
Reminding us of distant places
Familiar yet foreign in their grimace
or their sorrowful smiles.

Like the woman who lost her child
while washing her linens in the Colorado.
He toddled off to catch a lizard
and became an image in the clouds.

Pedals tiny, bright, veined with light,
catch my eye amid the green
In momentary pause I click the pic
and capture a unique bloom
forgotten or unseen till now.

Like so many children whose
adult eyes go unnoticed.

I see you.

Seldom do snowflakes slip down our cheeks

nor icicles, rigid and clear, dangle from our eves.

But long, winter shadows don our hallways,

bending with late sunshine or moonbeam glaze

the figures we all recognize as each other.

Each silhouette, advancing in from the lot

or retreating to find its way to an evening

of rest, burdened or buoyed by the youth

that we serve, lifts my holiday spirit

and graces my work day like the perfectly-

piped, royal icing on the gingerbread house

of my childhood. No trinket can say

what only deeds can prove–I couldn’t

imagine working here without you.

May festive holidays and peaceful sleep usher

out the old and bring you joy in the New Year.

Have you heard the greatest of news?
It’s a gift sometimes dismissed:

Families, dear ones, even with their
Eccentricities, are forever.

Despite the distance, disputes,
dogged death that interrupts them,

Families, quirky and complex,
are made in the simple offerings

A phone call, a drop in, a plate
of baklava, or note from a friend,

A quick cup of something warm,
a photo on the Facebook page,

A long planned trip or a spur
of the moment jaunt south–

Each text message, or cameo
of Dad’s fish or sea-life sighting,

Each political difference, each
popular song about loss or love.

Each child’s first step, each cousin’s
first child, grandchild, marriage or divorce

All, every moment, make our families
similarly stellar and chaotic-

All, happily ours. Thanksgiving tables can
happen all year. May feasting begin again.

 

People on summer vacation
shoot the moon at the Amtrak;
Oh, to be rafting down the Colorado.

Of course, their moons are white.
One drunk kayak-er motions
to his girlfriend to join him.

She declines and blushes as she
moves into the brush to hide
from the eyes of the rail passengers.

Fly fisherman cringe as the train’s
horn responds to the engineer’s tug,
to the waves, and to the intersections.

Fleeting images from the trip back
East. Odd as it is, no one says,
“On the trip back West.”

Where the sun and the moon
set, and where one’s shorts
are kept up around one’s waist.

I
“My name is Jack,” he says
with confidence that his is the best
name ever. And why not?

“I was in the Australian outback
with my granddad last winter,
and now we are on our way
to ride a horse through the Badlands.

We have a Tesla and a BMW.
I love to fish—caught a Trigger fish
in Oahu two weeks ago. I’m nine.”

“That’s a lot of privilege
for one so young,” I say.
“And I love to travel,” he adds.

As we speed down the tracks
through Colorado’s Red Canyon,
he chatters, oblivious to my wonder.

And it’s the day of the protest
about children escaping oppression
only to be separated from their

mothers in our foreign land
for which they hold so many
dreams about shelter, food, and water.

II
I drove up on my first day
in the Chevy my parents
helped me buy.

Unaware that in minutes
the lot would be filled with
Mercedes, BMWs, even a Ferrari.

The drivers were sixteen—
Their cars costing more
Than my annual salary.

Three decades later
I still drive a Chevy,
and they think I am like them.

III
He spent his money earned while a Marine in Vietnan on a 1971 Landcruiser; drove it off the showroom floor.

Thirty years later, he spent
his inheritance restoring it
and cruzin’ the West side.

His sister bought a BMW
before dying of breast cancer
days before her grandchild was born.

The ah-ooga horn bellows
when he ventures near
a pasture of grazing cattle.

Indifferent to his disturbance,
they chew their cud and shake their
heads at the human obsession with horns.

IV
And I wondered about the depth
of the canyon below us
as the Zephyr picked up speed.

And the Charles River lit up
with July fourth flares,
and cheers for the Republic,

And children wept for their
lost parents, and veterans
wept for their lost innocence.

And the cars sat in the driveway
of the privileged, hard-working
men and women of America.

Gone are the days of milking the cow
at dawn, baling the hay ’til sunset,
lumberjack breakfasts and skinned knees.
Lost are the chalk hopscotch games
and long walks home from our primer
school,  the Ninety-One in Canby.

As the sunrises again, the waves
feel unnatural and distant.
Connections weaken as the broadband
signal strengthens, and the book
gives way to soundbites.
The whirling dervish spins
until his costume peels off
exposing the wolf that gobbled
up the grandmother.

 

That coy pose, shoulders raised,
wrists and itsy palms upturned
little petal curls at her lip corners.

And grandpa fawns, his voice changing
in ways it hasn’t in many years.
His heartstrings about to amputate his pinky.

He had not imagined the bond, her unconditional love,
amazed daily at her flirtatious coos–
His steep conditions have not yet applied.

“Laagi, laagi, laagi,” echoes as she
tuddles down the hall,
lips puckered for the goodnight kiss.

He has forgotten his disappointment
about her gender–and he knows now
that he was wrong to feel that way.

She growls and lays her head down
on his chest.

 

Masters sculpt with words
crafted by eons of use–
a poem or song, some float or spin.

I , too, select a phrase,
turn it, build a thought
brick by muddled brick–

And the foundation,
forged by strong ideas,
and stronger sentiment

Raised with perfect syntax,
concrete the musings
in the soon-to-be
lost annals of time.

 

People, like pebbles, dot the shore
as sand decapods barrel roll in the surf,
little legs crawling through the air,
unaware of my giant self casting
shadows on the curling waves.

I walk alone with my toes
popping the foam bubbles
remembering small moments
of my life where my legs
and mind crawled in vain.

Moments washed over by powerful seas,
I then tumble toward tomorrow
wishing mostly that my shell, like
the pebbles in the surf,
will withstand the ebb and flow
of the rising, swirling tide

And become polished
and beautiful.