Can you hear this?

There is so much noise 

in the room

you must yes you truly must 

go outside into the twilight

there where light is fading

there where the loud voices are shut away

there you will hear what is going on 

you will hear weeping

voices of mothers whose children 

are dying

dying because promised help is not coming 

this is all you can hear 

Go on up the hill

where you hear the lamenting

voice of the saxophone 

losses lining the horizon 

Do you dimly see

birds of prey 

sharpening their beaks

as their talons sink into what was once ours

& carry it off beyond our horizons

Do you think this is a prelude to greatness? 

Do you think help is on the way 

like those mothers did?

Are you ready for the storm or do you think you are the storm?

The sky is not falling

the earth is not opening to swallow you 

it is only the end of the chapter 

the question you must ask

No you really must ask

What is the name of the chapter? 

How many episodes are there? 

Is this really the end of the United States? 

And when will we know? 

Is it too late? 

The plaintive saxophone 

there on your sidewalk 

at dusk

asks the question 

Is it too late?

Carnival Season

Why would two feather boas

having their own parade in soft winter light

matter to the day?

11° Fahrenheit this morning

signals the ice will not melt 

despite blue skies and sunshine

Inside dogs are sprawled on the furniture 

morning ruckus over

sunlight turns glossy aglaonema leaves

translucent as stained glass 

Guitar music from the practice room

fills the house 

wild geese beat wings in formation 

past leafless cottonwoods 

Despite these peaceful indulgences intransigent problems 

assert themselves at peripheries

but time has shown 

even they will be consumed by inexorable change

The oak does not show buds 

with so much winter to go 

it waits in stasis 

last spring’s growth turned hard

its sap will awaken 

deep in the ground its roots interact 

with mychorrhizae

this relationship has persisted 400 million years 

Imbolc Ostera Beltane 

ancestral celebrations of winter dissolving

some future people will have other names

for the times that are yet to come

when humans’ history persists 

alongside the roots of trees

no longer ours

What will we become

will there be a we

wherein we can hear our dogs’ thoughts

in words 

understand what the winds say

when we release the wild rivers

build habitats of perpetual spring

for those in need of them 

celebrate winter shouting songs as we glide around mounds of snow 

Will we be those people?

Yesterday Was Thanksgiving

By the time it was dark 

my bones ached 

from pulling away from the loneliness 

of the missing voices

You would not imagine I would feel so acutely 

Richard whose old time eccentricities stood in front of the kindest heart

Jean who wrote back on Facebook but was my actual cousin

Nance who texted me more days than not

My family who had died off since Spring 

One of my daughters who cut me away is not unreachable 

I could call her 

but to what end she would only tell me how hideous I am

who would walk into that smoke filled wilderness 

Still I ache for her there

The other, one never knows what broken glass litters the ground between us

I would pick it all up but she keeps it there like curls of razor wire where she could choose rosemary and sage to line her path

This morning the Thanksgiving table still set with French linens

protea and eucalyptus in the vase from Amsterdam 

candles wrapped in birch bark or tall in copper stands like stems of winter 

Outside there are horizontal icicles on the fountain

I cut a slice of pastry ate it with salted nuts

There is a necklace I began and will finish perhaps today

Not sure who it is for 

But it is for someone 

There is still love in my world 

deep snow on distant peaks 

rivers run with fallen leaves

it is all there 

just as brown leaves cling still to the oak tree

undetached despite every sighing wind 

The Wounded World

When Justice redefined itself as Peril

Leaves lying in red and yellow splendor

on the river

sank to the bottom to become silt

Whitest snow fell early

snuggled against doors and windows

closing off sunlight bearing tales of deep winter

When Tolerance redefined itself as Zero

pages of the dictionaries caught fire

amidst cries of spontaneous combustion

weapons began polishing themselves

for who would dare touch them

Love became Lost

Hope became Fear

in the seasons of triumph for those who no longer acknowledged people as people

if they were not born in the right place

Where oh where are you

author of goodness

Someone said they traded it all for Peace

Did you awaken in darkness

teeth clenched

tears leaking from the corners of your eyes

Did you ask

where is my cape?

where is my light saber?

where are all my very best words?

Why Poetry

 I belong to the shoulder seasons

those times of luminance wherein the air changes colors

We each have our place 

those boot resting niches

If we can each see ourselves 

in the twilight in the fullness of the moon

wherever despite the brightest sunlight 

there are no shadows 

If we can shout our amazement 

at the blackened eclipsed sun

we might find our peculiar truths

we might rediscover those parts of self we dropped on the way to this place 

When you look into the waters of the breaking waves

there is no reflection 

unlike the face that looks back from still dark ponds

What has changed contains outlooks not to be set aside 

not now

on these times of uncertainty and vast confusion 

where we stand on the same brink of what lies ahead

mostly convinced we are each elsewhere 

Possibly seen in another time

 The Earth is Plainspoken

Once I knew what the trees know

Connected root by root 

Their underground messaging 

Accepting mysteries

Once I knew what the fish know

Earth shaking water splashing

Deep diving then just swimming

There is deep change upon us 

The world stays the same

Until it does not

This is what volcanoes tell us

This is where we are at home

Where the sky bleeds in beauty

Oceans sigh 

We are simply creatures seeking meaning

Where is the meaning in the stream

What do wildflowers do

Do we speak the language of metamorphosis?

Things They Say

 Live your life as if it is the only life 

Drink the Negroni - drink two

Buy the boots - those red boots with the stitching

Show up for the eclipse 

Drive that convertible

Swim in the ocean every chance you get

Shake the pebbles out of your shoes

Learn the names of trees

Raise your expectations like kites in the breeze

Live in a way that you trust yourself to do right

Find laughter

Stomp in piles of fall leaves

The list goes on forever