Canary In The Mine

View the shame parade

complete with photos

the worst on the planet

with their hoard, listed in order.

This is a sick dysfunction,

perhaps the sarcastic

illustrious praise

at their misdeeds

is too subtle

immersed as we are

in this madness.

A rus-in-urbe rooftop garden

trucked-in soil

and pumping water

to complete the illusion

of what is only

natural.  When we ground

ourselves and face the need

that looks so much like greed

and claim it,

how do we read

the cast of billionaires

and what is our recommended

treatment for these outliers

of the human condition?

Inspired by: Hoard, Order, Rus in urbe and Illustrious and the Forbes list of billionaires.

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Change of Tack

Winter knocked the wind

out of my sails, frozen

in this bay with no power

and no justice.  Come thaw,

I will set out once again

like these migrating ducks.

How many lands have

my ancestors shuffled through,

eking, aching hearts,

dreams to glide

to prosperity 

or at least

fairness?

Indigenous to a mysterious

past, far back beyond

what’s remembered.

Stranger here

and the earth is muttering

darkly with the disrespected

bones we feel

in this thick air.

We open to the despair,

the only bridge

to hope

that tiny glimmer.

Every intuitive leap

brings us closer

to the edge

of change

like spring,

that long-awaited miracle

palpable

rising.

Inspired by Justice, Power, Thaw and Sail.

The Layers of Now

The knight-errant delates

the enchantress

to the medieval tribunal;

she’s tortured for heresy

and practices of power.

And even now we carry

that shadow impossible

to touch, its weight forcing

our pace.  We believe.

You’re too big for your britches,

my grandma warned. So let’s get

naked, converse with

dinosaurs like a three-year-old,

delighting in the tune

the ancient memory of our being.

Shall we dare the dark

to reach for stars

our own relations

pointing precise lines

of connection, winnowing

past the satellites thrown

like so many toddlers’ toys

in the messy skies?

Clean up, clean up, we sing

over the Wi-Fi pledge

one global chorus

injustice and rubbish

clear to our eyes.

Do you see that, too?

Validated finally

while on the world stage

greedy monsters’

unreined stampede toward certain

disaster

keeps us horrified

and static.

The cordless frequency of fear

corralling us

fenced in seeming separation.

We chafe and squabble,

point fingers and cry,

restless

while under our feet

the only necessary step

simple

calling

until finally we tune in.

Inspired by: Wi-Fi, Knight, Delate and Pledge.

I Need A Miracle

I’m huddling in the last

days of winter and how

do people stay alive?

When that dark wind

sprays madness,

do they simply nestle

under comforters

slack-jawed and snoring?

I wheeze until I rise

long before the sun.

The sameness feels

like shame.

My ancestors spoke words

that had no meaning

to the people they slaughtered:

money, value, property,

own, discard.

Propelled by myths

of separation, we settled

and moved,

dispossessed

and greedy for everything

we can’t see

and can’t say.

We’ve put a price tag

on the gift and how can we

continue this interest-bearing?

Once we blamed the regal

heads of state, so made

a single alteration

in our wealth

driven by war

consuming

consumed

consumption

our progressive wasting

away

and tell me, please,

how do we stay

when we can’t take it

anymore, screaming

through the birth pains

coming of age.

 

Inspired by Regal, Alteration, and Spray

This New Story

I remember laughing

— so long ago and far away

from this sea of pain

we float in oily

separation on the surface.

We polish words like zenith

and nadir to allow smug

disdain to flavor

our perceptions.  As if

we’ve forgotten our connection,

that contemptible, lamentable

big toe

down in the despicable depths

of a different

less-than galaxy.  Not our kind.

Quite isolated and useless.

When we peer with

bleary eyes

from the binging,

will it occur to us to tune

in to the child

picking through piles

of discards

our hunger

inseparable?

Willing at last to be labeled

crazy

as we affirm

these crumbling foundations

lie.

Lunatics released

from the narrative of denial

of the negative space

which illuminates

our unity.

We’ll laugh later.

Now is the time for the cleanse

of searing tears

just before we welcome

everyone home.

Inspired by Occur, Zenith and  Tune

Sow The Seeds

 

Today I’m playing with a new challenge!  A stream of consciousness poem written for the SOCS (stream of consciousness Saturday) prompt critic.

My inner critic has always joined in

any perceived slight

insult

and the inner defender is silent

watching as I squirm

then bend in defeat

at the pressure

of all this displeasure.

Judgment.

My mother tells me she is so grateful

for my brother without whom

she would never have known

about the kitchen utensil I have

used for years in front of her.

I sigh.

My best friend tells me that my tune-in

doesn’t land, and what once

would have stung,

I simply see what’s true

right now.

I have this packet of seeds

and I spread them

thoughtlessly,

not asking for recompense,

as if the world is my garden

and every soul I connect

is a part of me.

Sometimes I can’t hear

these songs of celebration.

The pearls are mudcaked,

perceptions are puckered.

We are galaxies

writhing in incomprehensible

beauty, shielding our eyes

and turning away

from the mystery.

I offer myself because

I must, not with any hope

that you will receive me,

opening the package

for myself,

weeping in joy

at the surprise.

Dream Bivouac

I’ve almost reached the peak

just beyond this sheer cliff.

I glimpse a dark-haired young

woman at the top, staring

intently at what must be

a stupendous view.  I’m not

pausing here to catch my breath

in this rarefied air or

because I’m itching with sweat.

I’m simply relishing the solitude

this stark space

only ancient rocks holding me

in a silent communion, so deep

and rich it seeps into my cells,

changing me.  That woman is still

rapt and in theory, she must see past

mountain ranges to blue ocean.

So I reach for handholds and hang

on this rock face, and I realize

I need help.

A thick rope dangles

near.  I test it and

a man’s head appears,

offers a brawny arm, plucks

me from my peril.

The tantalizing world

spreads like an offering.

Complete with a crowd

ascending

an easy path

steps carved into the mountain.

Mothers are chiding rapscallion

children peering over the edge.

I raise my lens to capture

the haphazard rubble, foundation

blocks discarded under an arch

of a bridge.  I find the lines

pull me.  My camera seizes.

My batteries are depleted.

I commit this view

to memory

as I begin my descent.

 

Inspired by:  Theory, Air, Rapscallion and Itching.