poem 75

 

poem 74

 miracles

 

a three night

early june freeze

then two weeks on

a desiccating and deadly

one-fifteen

one-twelve

one-fourteen

one-ten

days on days

pepper flowers wilt

and fall unloved

cucumbers and squash

languish under

hasty set shady arches

tomato vines burn

themselves entwined on

scorching metal frames

bees nowhere to be seen

 

 

one honeybee found lumbering

from flowers to water dish

over days on end

more bees come

breaking the grievous silence

honey cutter wild bumble

teeny and blimpy

solitary and hivers

humming raucously

sleeping in flowers

under leaves

in cedars maples pines

under roots a damp haven

a cutters’ paradise

as i water they land

in my sparse white hair

momentarily sharing

pausing on my shoulders

before impatient zzz’s  

push me away

poem 73

[now what to do]

 

squash and cucumbers

push open black wire gates

meant to protect not imprison

the wide lush leaves

startling yellow flowers

gleaming powerful tendrils

twining and lifting and triumphal

seemingly unaware

fragility forgotten in precious moments 

striving beneath summer’s

full moon and blazing sun

dreaming with no thought

of raking hooves claws teeth

raccoon skunk and opossum

 

[no way to warn them]

poem 72

Sweet Scales Irrevocably Tipped

 

how is it we bid farewell

not knowing what lies beyond

witless we empty the well

as if our soundings play true

not hollow knocks on death’s door

goodbye water goodbye

 

as if we ignore don’t know

what comes next already arrives

tomorrow just there just there

when we tell ourselves big lies

our children’s green world burning

goodbye water goodbye

 

somewhere else far flung beyond

earth submerges her shores her cliffs

her meadows her bays our homes

our ruin hot greed melting

ice beneath entire islands

goodbye goodbye goodbye

poem 71, v.3

Itza wants Peace

whatever that means

late at night she wakes

in urgency

in cramping muscles  

in doomness

[i tell her doomness is not a word]

and she insists

rants and raves

that whatever

letters one pulls together

are words—words as if                

poem 71

Itza wants Peace

whatever that means

late at night

she wakes in

urgent cramps

muscles parched in doomness

[i tell her doomness is not a word]

she insists rants raves

that whatever letters

one pulls together to express are words

—words as if

poem 70

sky rumbles

bombers streak

Itza stares

beyond blue

layers shift

fire out once

more streaks tear

home strip fuel

up fill up

rip southward

again and

Itza pins

wire frames shut

hands aching

startling thought

terrible

how what saves

douses homes

forests fields

skills planes born

of dropping

red hot death

somewhere else