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

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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

New phone, who dis?

I used to fantasize

my family tree grew

from the nobility.

I’d say, “Off with her head,”

to seize my cousin’s power.

— Maybe this is a Scottish

Stuart thing.  A child, I’d watch

with a fire, my heart

desperate to make sense

of the outright imbalance

that no one acknowledged.

And then the teenaged avalanche

of insights, someone didn’t 

share and we are all

descendants of that

hoarding evil.  We started

as stardust, so why do we

idolize these pretty faces

glimpsed on their expensive yachts,

their feet firmly planted

on our delicate necks?

We don’t even squirm,

lost in our visions —

perhaps even their

merest touch

will gild our desires.

When will we rise

and claim our connection,

tear down the illusion

walls and awaken

to hear

the cries

of our cousins?

Inspired by:  Nobility, Watch, Avalanche and Fire.

The Art of War

The internment of hundreds of thousands of poor and mentally ill people has been a driving force in achieving our record levels of imprisonment. ~ Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy.

This sweat of daily practice hones

my clumsy two-handed heft

of a broadsword and my intent

to decapitate the enemy

with one swipe.

It’s all a head game.

Raise my temperature

unholy passion.

The enemy is all around me

and I’m striking

because I’m good

means you’re bad

and I can’t let you in,

an evil virus infecting me.

No empathy; welcome

to the prison nation.

If you’re rich, you’ll pay

a fine, but if you’re a poor

sinner, you’ll become

the currency. 

Build more

places of incarceration.

He’s obviously guilty, my mother says,

or why would he be in jail?

Yet even she is nervously

watching the cop on her tail.

She’s white; he won’t shoot.

She thinks her daughter should write

about nice things, not stir up 

trouble.  In her police shows

the SWAT teams break down

the doors and trash the wrong

house, leaving without apology,

intent heroes

on the trail

of the real miscreant.

We count our wealth

hoping it will buy us salvation

because a prison sentence

would be fatal.  We lock

the doors against the threat

that follows us inside

like smoke, and we cannot

catch our breath, so busy

feeding the flames.

Inspired by Broadsword, Empathy, Temperature and Passion.

I Hear You Calling

The bay iced up, buffleheads

dive in the shrinking

open water, hundreds crowding

as the lake borders close.

Surely spring is percolating

through this late winter

but more snowfall is predicted

tomorrow.  They’ve hunkered

down, as have their kind

farther south, who were 

expected yesterday.  I worry

with my bovine dullness

how this will affect their mating

meetup in the wilds of Canada.

Will the latecomers arrive

too thin and weak to attract

the healthiest mate?  Will their

contribution to the gene pool

be lost, another achievement

of humankind’s oblivious

obstruction of the euphonious

whole?  We take, steal, bargain

for the cheapest price,

the hidden costs piling

like the mountains of rubbish

discarding as a

matter of course in our boredom.

Even when we notice

something is wrong, we can’t

track the cacophony 

inherent in our screaming society,

the rumbles of traffic above

and below, the livestreams,

airwaves bloated and our

ears beleagured.  The drumbeat

of our hearts subdued

under sleeping pills.

How can we wake up

and hear the song of love

that holds us

tiny insects

crawling on the skin

of our living mother?

Inspired by Percolate, Euphonious, Bovine and Achievement. and this song, Ancient Mother.

Grimm Wrongs

To deconstruct these tales, I must

call in the guild

of wise-women witches

to rein in the team of wizards.

I propose to dismantle

machinery that flattens

our focus, fans this desperate

need to be told.  We are poised

on the foundation

entranced by the architect

of a patriarchal castle,

wary of the woods

owned exclusively by the king.

The wild things seethe there.

Out of his control, they must

be wicked.  We’re engrossed

by the glossy pages waiting

for some specialist’s sterile

white-coated stethoscope

languaging lingular lobe

diagnoses in that wa-wa

voice.  There is no sense.

We clutch our symptoms,

victims in the dark

written into what we’ve

swallowed whole and 

sits undigested like

worry.  Sunrise is just 

expectation

someone will save us —

Jesus or a white knight,

a superhero.  It obviously

must be male.  

And we must pay.

We’re on our knees

or asses, beaten

to exhaustion, no space

to hear the inner calling.

Our own sacred voices

filtered out.

Admonished:  keep your eyes on the

skies.  Make a vision board

for the Big Dream.  Hypnotized

by the flimsy metaphor

that can’t tread water.

Test it, throw it into 

the deep end.  

There’s no saving

what becomes apparent.

Shall we give up

the waiting

to compose

new fairy tales?

simply

flowing

naked

fury

we

integrate

children

watch

now.

Inspired by Victim, Lingular, Guild,  Team and the flow of metaphors mixed up in today’s riptide outpouring. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Resistance Is Futile

This morning prompts

cue a diatribe

lambasting chivalry,

that elevation of war

poets in monotonous patriarchal

prisons.  I’ll sing instead

for my health,

lively, as I speculate 

that we can simply

resonate in a higher 

vibration.  Shaking off

and leaving behind

the old ways

colonial shame

and the ancients praise

this day

so long-awaited,

the constellation tuning-forks

above us in polyphonic

intricacies.

We listen to the deep

places between these bouncing

molecules, sensing

the long-sought-after harmony.

Inspired by Monotonous, Health, Speculate and Chivalry.