our home is a burning house,
a dying land, and a flooding sea.
we cling to blackened images,
throw our children into holes,
and think that we can swim.
we disregard the charred remains,
ignore the poisoned ground,
and turn our faces to the sky.
we wave and smile at the birds in the air,
as they kettle and soar.
what do you want?
you can have the sky,
washed in early morning
by pale sun.
you can have the ground,
bejeweled in cold hours
by glittering frost.
you can have the song,
offered in shadowy spaces
by calling doves.
all require a fee,
one quite marked in these times:
you must pay attention.
does it matter that the morning sky
shades the deepening purple of a bruise,
the dark hue I saw in her eyes
just before she knocked me to the floor?
does it matter that I think the moment beautiful
when the clouds lower to cover night’s regret,
the sigh she would follow with a kiss
before she told me that nothing really happened?
does it matter that I do not care for the sun’s bright light
because she threw me into the shadows?
it does not, not at all.
I was born in the darkest hour.
never a place
not shelter built with brick or wood
not land passed down through time
not candlesticks carried in hurried flight
never these, though closer
not the one who loved in childhood
not the one who did not
not teachers encountered through many years
not community gathered round
closer still but not even these
a fragment of song, halt in aged voice
a sip of tea, earthy depth with each cup
a scent of salt, overlay to morning fog
and the wrinkles of a beloved hand
to those who rhapsodize about peace
found in nature, and harmony in birdsong
and other lovely things.
I invite you to walk with my dog.
she does not stare at squirrels with warm friendship,
nor at groundhogs or foxes;
they in turn do not invite her to play
or even remain in close proximity when we walk.
they know; she knows; I know that they are prey,
and she would kill any, had she the chance.
birds sing, true, but also squawk,
and not for our enjoyment, remember.
they want mates; they sound warnings over territory;
they signal their health (but this returns to mating).
walking in fields involves dirt, muck, and mud;
with each step, you crush some insect or plant.
find your peace, enjoy your harmony, but do not forget
that these are things that you impose,
imaginary as rainbows in the sky.
until I am home, there is tea.
since I have no home, I have tea.
anywhere I dwell is temporary.
cups also; they break, are given away, or simply disappear.
tea remains,
each sip lasting as long as one breath.
that is enough. that is all.
she showed no remorse, only regret
to have been found out, caught in misdeed
she arched towards me in pretend contrition
her eyes gave the lie, shining with pride
I knew that inside she was laughing
love forgives much, and so for those eyes,
what could I do but laugh myself
a world full of inexplicable things
inexplicable to me, that is
with each new day I am as a child
reaching into a box of wonders
entering a library of marvels
listening to a chorus of virtuosi
even when streets fill with rushing rain
even when sirens wail in ominous lament
even when walls tumble from searing heat
despair is companioned,
holding fast hands with curiosity
death. death. more death.
violent murderous wartime death.
pestilential starving cruel death.
death in streaming technicolor.
death in social media posts.
death in every possible way.
a friend who lives in another country
sends me a constant barrage:
this country, that country, another country
is perpetuating horrible death.
why does he think I don’t know this?
I spend my time now
writing graffiti on gravestones
throwing flowers on funeral pyres
and detailing the beauty of vultures that fill our skies.
this early morning.
air should smell of rain, wet leaves, mud.
train fuel reek fugs the fields.
birdsong and squirrel chatter should accompany our walk.
metal engines clangor away any animal noise.
nature inevitably prevails,
however industry (and we) might choose.
look up, the sky is ever there;
walk, the earth always beneath;
every manufactured thing; fundamentally part of the world.
in the pause between piston beats,
I hear the cry of three Canadian geese flying their regular overhead route.
