Here Is My Song

Hey blue, there is a song for you, ink on a pen, underneath the skin, an empty space to fill in.~Joni Mitchell

The simplicity of my matinal rites
by the lake and skyful of blue

available to anyone here–trembling
poplars, this downy woodpecker

rattling, a pair of cautious dusky
ducks. The praying mantis looks

over her shoulder with large bulbous
eyes. Three ruby throats of humming-

birds dive and chirrup. My pen glides
in the cursive flow of thoughts

informed by space. Three-year-old twins
on the opposite shore squeal

helmeted and wheeling. The wildlife
flees. Traffic thrums. The shadow

of wings fast across the grass.
By starts and fits I edge into

emotional depths of this shimmering
moment, cloudless blue embrace

bright water quivering in pure
essence goosebumps and chicken skin.

My brother is driving to see his new
granddaughter; my friend is home

from the hospital, these texts
like prayers infusing my heart

beyond the stories this intense
invitation open the multilayered

being green and blue planet
spinning incomprehensibly

welling up, pouring through
the way beneath my dancing feet.

Inspired by:  Simplicity, Matinal, EmotionalAnyone and blue, the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt today (sit and write about the first blue object you see today.) (As always, my really-wanna-edit brain gets a firm no!)  Also a dverse poet prompt to write in descriptive detail.  And Joni Mitchell’s song Blue.

 

(War) good God y’all

What is it good for?  Absolutely nothing. ~ War, Edwin Starr

I confess to be an avid

collector, growing, of the myriad

faults in the parroted party line.

I’d plan my argument

against their ideology, just

a typical rebellious teen.

Now I grope towards

emotional maturity, that mysterious

platform hidden by my fog

of codependence,

like Bugs Bunny’s a-ha moment:

of course you realize this means war.

Letting go of resistance, not fighting

the warriors at their own

game — and yes, bombing and killing,

starving and stealing

is a rich man’s power play.

Nodding a fond farewell

to peacing out

which so appealed in my childhood

songs, the bombers turning

into butterflies above our nation.

How is it we ignore the years

of slavery, the genocide of First

Nations, the unprecedented imprisonment

of the poor?  How do we pretend

the violence paid by our taxes

is necessary?  We’re urged

to choose a side, when both parties

barely glance up from their grisly

feasting, mouths dripping with

the blood from our hearts,

as they dimly notice

the foundations shaking

when we understand the pain

of the bit and the reins

and their heels digging in.

Inspired by:  Avid, Collection, Ideology, and Plan.