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When Trees Begin To Scream (Poem)
when air is too heavy to breathe
and heat an inescapable surround,
trees begin to scream.
were we to hear these death shrieks,
would we open our mouths agape and join in,
until the earth rang with fiery laments of rage and grief?
more likely shake our heads in momentary sadness,
return to our cool interiors,
watch a documentary about magnificent forests,
perhaps remarking, “oh, what a shame.”
some willfully ignore the sound,
disbelieving that anything deciduous has a voice
or one that counts, as it does not vote or work for them.
most will be unable to hear,
too busy groaning out their own last gasps
as they labor under the the sun’s relentless gaze,
while we privileged few live in the shade.
best start listening now.
when they become silent, that is the end.
our screaming will last for a much shorter time than theirs.
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Mother Hole (Poem)
she put me in the car
drove headlong into the oncoming lane
that was the first time
she picked up a skillet full of hot oil
flung it at my head
that was the second time
she took me to a strange city
abandoned me on the street
that was the third time
I never knew still do not know
what she thought to do by any of these things
the first destroyed a sense of security
but heightened awareness
the second killed a hope for love
but taught trust in reflexes
the third wiped out desire for a relationship
but rewarded the tendency to be prepared
I cannot say I lost her-how do you lose one you never had-
though for many years I grieved over the empty space
where she might have been
this has become only sadness
over what she could have had
over the damage she must have suffered
over the inability to build a bridge she would accept
but also gratitude for the strengths I have
my heart once so hurt I did not think it would ever heal
now opens wide enough to invite the world
to rest within an infinite expanse
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We Do Not Go: We Are (Poem)
in the night hours where do we return
for that is the time, that is always the time
when we begin and cease our wandering
there when we find our forced rest
nowhere to go nothing to do
where are we in the mirror stare
and who gazes back at us
are we our body yes are we our mind yes
are we whoever knows this yes
and what does this mean when we go away again
we the constant reinventors of ourselves
yes yes yes but and
does this matter at all no
in the end we are not we are they are not anything are everything
we always return home
we are only home
