Another attempt at an abcedarian

An Abecedarian for William

A poem that
begs you
carefully to
dream and
earnestly listen,
filling in
grace after
hearing
invisible whispers,
just fitted
keys turning,
lowly voices
murmuring on and on,
not surprising us or
openly forcing us,
pouring ideas and
questionable facts,
resisting lies,
saying out loud
through rising choirs
underneath apathetic alliances
volumes and volumes.
William,
xanthic
yellow plums have entered my consciousness,
zestful and invasive as breath.


© May 2019

Abecedarian

Fight the Apathy of Man

All fairness follows without policy of life
beyond it is unknown to receive the word.
Can you believe the surety of misconception?
Do you stand up for every tree that grows upon this earth?
Every forest has its purpose and its right;
for every cell of every tree, time is allotted.

Go forth and risk the darkest earth’s eternal soul,
hear every creature’s cry for help (some whispers).
Independent though we seem, only together will we
jump past the negativity of this invasion:
knotweed and blackberry, to name a few.
Loss of prairie grasses and tundra corrupt

man’s apathy, to witness those that ‘just do
not care’ increase in number every day.
Only knowledge fills the trough,
passing on the hard-fought wisdom,
quest for reverence, allowance of the
ripeness within each leaf and stem.

Search and boldly search again for
tests to pass, rules to keep to, heroes who
understand that leaders must be truly harsh,
violently so as to force the masses
weary from the battle for our home.
Xena, fight this battle with us!
Yet this is the only home we’ll ever know; earth’s
Zenith is where the prize awaits us all.


© May 2019

Dystopia

This City is One Colour

The gardens, filled with sprays of magnolias, lilies, peonies,
enrich the landscape of our lives allowing us to view
the kaleidoscope of wonders in this time. And yet, within this place,
within this suburban wasteland, we can overlook that which is not represented,
that which we know is part of all we were but is not here right now.

Now, only after pausing to contemplate the obvious, do we recognize that
all faces are the mirror, the bleached whiteness hidden by the sallowness of
spirit, the pallor of the death of long-lost diversity, an emptiness of hues;
somehow, we have allowed a segregation, where we have lost the power,
and now our genes cannot remedy our frayed mistake.



© May 2019

Found Poems

Political Intrigue

                                From The Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula K. LeGuin, pg 88

time                 came three against

                fire spewed

                                                                swift,

                                breath

                                                                                came from north

                                                                                                                one

                                flew up 

                                                                                talons out,

                with fire,

                                                                swooped,                       till

                                                red-lit                    glare

                                                                                                the dragon.

                                                                                                The black

                                                                                                tore free

crawling into                                                   the ruined town.

                                                                                                hands

black

scorched

                                                nor voice spoke

                                                only the waves

on the shore.

                                                                dragon-magic.

© May 2019

Some thoughts on Emily Dickinson

Unrepentant 

Not for Emily

As a form, it is not fluid
Square peg in a round hole,
I cannot condone her scriptures,
to grasp what does not glow.
There is no place for me in this
unforgiving closet.
I am not a rock, a diamond,
but a soft hosanna.


© May 2019

Death Blocks The Way

Death is to travel, not return

Death is a space unwelcome

Death is an unbecoming phase of life

Death is so comatose

It is not death that I do fear

It is not death I worship

It is not death for just death’s sake

It is not death repentant

Knowledge comes full stop at death

Wise words present themselves at death

All pain and cries will cease at death

Creation sings its song at death

© May 2019

School strike for climate action - Friday

The Young Will Inherit Our Problems

rise up and leave the classroom.
go out the door and walk down the road with
hundreds, maybe thousands, of fellow students,
who will march forsaking every plan made in their name,
pointing out mistakes and lies,
covering up the bees and flowers,
opening the poor and weary to the hate
that they do not deserve.

rise up and leave your youth.
grow up much faster than you should.
take the reins that others have left hanging
by the roadside on their way to apathy and hate.
assume the leadership that should not be yours
for many years, for the leaders are weak and useless.
we cannot hold onto the promise we made to you
to protect, to keep you safe and warm,
until the time when you would take the lead.

rise up and leave the comfort of your home.
march down the highway, gather strength along the way
and, with one voice, demand the change that must be made
for you and me and all of us to live upon this earth, for
there is no planet B.


© May 2019

Looking out the window

My view is mostly blocked by this increasingly large conifer.

Old Friend

The spruce in my backyard holds up the world.
It keeps the chickadees that live among its branches
safe from harm; it covers crows and starlings from the rain;
it provides the Stellar jays and hummingbirds a close-by perch
for the water feature when it’s free for bathing.

The spruce in my backyard supports new life.
Freshly broken eggs fall to the ground as spring robins leave
the family’s nest to graze for worms and ants and grubs
within the lawns nearby. A symphony at 5am each day
rewards the early risers, myself among them.

The spruce in my backyard grows tired quickly at its age.
The stages of its life revealed as branches, cones, and needles
on the ground around its base; it dances in a breeze,
runs swiftly in the wind, and shouts at the top of its’ lung when
winter gusts return to cover it for the year-end celebration.

© May 2019