protestors continue to deny that guns
were the problem. how many more shootings need to happen? the time
for us to have stopped was right after Sandy Hook high school. Parkland. Santa Fe.
twenty children, seventeen people, ten. a moment of silence, and then the “wonderful NRA.” dismissing calls. “extreme political agenda”
Dallas. Sutherland Spring. El Paso.
five people. twenty-six people. twenty-three people.
a church. a supermarket, a
rampage. protect our kids, not
guns. how many more of these need to happen? all I want is
reasonable gun control. reasonable background checks. eliminating
military-style weapons. we are an embarrassment. we cannot protect our children in our schools.
“this time will be different.”
every decent American is mourning twenty-one beautiful lives.
ruthlessly and indiscriminately extinguished.

the world: updated. we,
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the latest buzz.
make a
difference.

Thinking won’t make me safe
And yet it persists
Being alive but not living
Avoiding mirrors
Sharing my day
Interacting deeply
I’m all in the clouds
Time moves bizarrely.
People look at me weird.
It’s not safe to be me.
When did I become this?
How did I become this?
Is it because of my environment?
Am I simply afraid?
Shame, confusion, pain, fear, disconnection
Am I dead?
How long have I been dead?
I skipped something? Missing something?
Time slows down and fast-fowards.
The stomach grinds to a halt.
The masks way heavy on my face
As the Gods turn their backs.
I open my mouth to scream
nothing comes out.

A dainty table for four
A rah zah zah restaurant
Four chairs
Filled with empty people in an empty room
Here to ‘celebrate’
No music
No smiles
No genuine ones at least
A man with a fresh patchily shaven head
A man with $600 copper spectacles
A woman with a neck brace
with a distaste for garlic
And a woman with a strawberry drink
Isolated
Quiet
Eerie
Held captive by the dinner table

I thought you’d always be there

in the back

when I go to look for you

Just like, shit, there ain’t words

to describe the half-lit room

in my mind full of things about you

The lines of your eyes

Pearls in your ears

Hair the color of a wine stain

Skinny jeans an inch too short

I look at you, feel like I’m dying

Love you, love you too,

Say it back, she says

You like that?

You say I have the best reactions

to everything you say

You tell me to be safe in the car

but I don’t make any promises

Your fingers are sure of it

around their cigarette

Because I love to suffer, I don’t say goodbye

before I leave I play a song full of religious imagery

and I save my own life if it goes on

like this, I won’t last

You’re like the water that never runs dry,

You’re like the runner who never slows down,

You’re that light that never goes out,

and I’ll never forgive you for that.

Four Poems

Listen to spoken-word master, Pages Matam, and what he has to say on finding your voice in poetry, the healing and cathartic nature of poetry, and on the power of language.

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found   
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,   
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.   
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world   
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence   
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind   
While there is still time.

Anne Sexton

Until tonight they were separate specialties,
different stories, the best of their own worst.
Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy’s
laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
story. Someday, I promised her, I’ll be someone
going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum
school for proper girls. The next April the plane
bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned
and fear blew down my throat, that last profane
gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned
to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,
sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.
Maybe Rose, there is always another story,
better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.
Half a mile down the lights of the in—between cities
turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy’s
story, the April night of the civilian air crash
and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,
the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash
ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.
This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking
in mid—air over Washington, like blind birds.
And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking
bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards
to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature
photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.
Special tonight because I made her into a story
that I grew to know and savor.
A reason to worry,
Rose, when you fix an old death like that,
and outliving the impact, to find you’ve pretended.
We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.
I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, 
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, 
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between 
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. 

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration 
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze 
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, 
Faces of people streaming across my gaze. 

And I, what fountain of fire am I among 
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed 
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng 
Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.

Tragedy instigating the misery that eviscerated a connection.
Like falling in a wrong direction, without a sense of navigation, devoid of discretion.
Evolving into a perplexing situation.

The same room became a fugue of a spiraling doom,
Silence filled the space where time could not erase, the fact that there now a literal space, loss makes tumors out of tulips, with a bottle to catch misplaced tears, just in case.

Control lost it’s cadence as it spun so wild, hollow child,
Free to dwell in light abundant, day one, reconciled.

As the weight dropped down, fell without a sound.
Tumbling upwards, held by no bound.
Arriving on Holy Ground, no death be found.

As shadows fight, grasping for cradle.
None can touch, what Hades cannot handle.

Boldly awkward, I can be.
As much of my prominence lays in the head, less so my mouth.

I’ve always been more of a writer than a talker.
I don’t talk really great, but writing I do.
The separation between the two, like a vast chasm with no bridged point.

Most of my recent moments, fraught with feeling outcast but also intuitively seeing similarities between individuals, as if being common brought sanity to all.

Commonality in high composure and astute speech.
From the outside, it’s all there, but inside, hardly think it’s anywhere at all.
You can see it in the eyes, the solemn bravado lay waste in pupils and irises.
Gazes aren’t straight, words are quick, witted and wispy.

All waiting for a turn to speak, rather than listen to the speaking.
For in that specific silence, most will meet the subjugation of innermost traumas.
Has a whole world gone mad, on insolence or veiled reasonings..
Aside from the chatter.

When a mind breaks open, to all the fragrant possibilities,
It is those who remain shut, who wield the torch and pitchfork.
Consistently spinning the same gear against the same mechanism that brought forth a hollow sound that rang in all ears.
But never stopped ringing..

Every thought I speak,
Met with dismissal or wandering murmurs..
A fish born on land, a wasp making nest in the sea.
Such a tragedy, like a ghost wafting in the air,
So I am

I shouldn’t have to beg for affection.

I love you but I wish you were different.

You don’t show emotion like I need from a partner.

Do you know how exhausting it is to have enough love for the both of us?

I give you my everything, but have nothing left over for myself.

You never fill my cup but yours is overflowing- wincing as I watch you lick your greedy lips; drenched in the sweetness I poured into you.

The same sweetness I will NEVER taste in return.

I’m always left with the bitter taste of the rind as you squeeze out the last of me down your insatiable throat.

When is it my turn?

When will my fucking cup runneth over?

Why can no one give me the love I fucking deserve.

” You just have to learn to love yourself”

I’m tired of being the only fucking person who does.

Two years with you; I saw fatherhood glisten in your eyes. But those are the same eyes that give me a blank stare when I say “MORE”.

Give me just a fucking morsal of love and attention.

I am so famished and starved for affection that doesn’t follow up with your hand on the back of my head.

Why can’t you just love me like you mean it?

What if I gave it back to you?

What if I treated you the way you treat me?

You would instantly know something was wrong.

“She didn’t call me handsome today. She didn’t cover my face in kisses. Why didn’t she say anything about my haircut?”

You would lose your goddamn mind.

But I can’t.

And you know I can’t.

My heart is so full with this stupid fucking love that you don’t deserve. I wish I could turn it off.

Just so you could hurt like I hurt.

And it makes me fucking sick that I can’t stop loving you.

Even when we fight, I wipe my tears just enough to see if you read my text.

My breathing is labored and I’m screaming into my pillow just thinking about you thinking about ending things.

But when I push you away ; and you hold me closer.

I can breathe.

That small moment when you think I’m really leaving this time, you hold onto me and love me and kiss me and feed me until I’m full with promises and soft whispers from your lying lips.

Only then do I feel needed.

Only then do I feel like I don’t need to beg you to love me.

We are open for submissions for the Spring Issue of the Poetry Cooperative. Please submit up to three bloom-themed poems of 24 lines or less before the end of February. Please send your poems to submissions@poetrycooperative.org.

Here’s something to inspire you.

that night, I saw god under a traffic light

Meadows are like frameless paintings sprawling nude and thousands of tulips blossoming. Yellow and red cups crowning chlorophyll and figments. A trillion cells sistering, and I won’t shred a field of grain, but I will mill it, cast salt for blooming crusts. Gutting a bolted door is like hiring a plumber and millions of glimmers brothering. Silver and golden drops dredging tar and rule books. A billion fires clotting, and I won’t tread on the ocean, but I will steal it, dry seaweed for kindling. Sometimes, fence posts grow limbs into the ground and arms, sky-bound. The wind moors a swing, and we sway.

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If there is a god,

when I die

he will have to beg for my forgiveness.

I will rip him from his throne,

and show him what it means to be afraid.

He will fall to his knees

and pray for my mercy.

He will confess his sins,

and I will not absolve him.

He will learn it is too late to repent.

If he dares act altruistic 

when we meet,

he will learn I do not forget so easily.

I will drag him through the pains of Earth,

and show him what it means to grieve.

He will plead with me to end it,

and wonder what he did so wrong.

He will cry to me for answers

and I will not give him one.

Just so he knows how it feels

to be Human.

      congaree haiku

moonlight, spanish moss

jarfly buzz their dying song

congaree river

saw mill, working late 

foreman there decapitates

his wife’s rich lover

reckoning tonight

on the congaree river

yes a reckoning

body parts been found

foreman’s wife tells all downtown

reckoning tonight

lawman in those parts

nick named “number one bird dog”

Tom Byrd gets his man

tonight we will see

if the birddog is for real

foreman waits, shotgun

reckoning tonight

on the congaree river

yes a reckoning

body parts been found

foreman’s wife tells all downtown

reckoning tonight

sneaking up, Byrd smiles

got the drop on this foreman

then from behind, “click”

reckoning tonight

on the congaree river

yes a reckoning 

then three shots ring out

bodies crash into the floor

bodies in a pile

guns strewn cross the floor

blood and brain on ceiling tiles

yes, a reckoning

the foreman lays dead

his wife has blown off his head

wife dead too, Byrd true

what of sherff bird dog

did old bird dog get a pass

no no no no no

“number one bird dog”

took a load of number one 

buckshot up his…

snout

Light It Up Santa

Verse 1

It tickles me to see

The kids marching down the street

Mouth and eyes open wide

Heading to the lighting of the Christmas tree

Verse 2

And when the brass band plays

Santa glides in on his sleigh

And when that fine fellow flips the switch

The kids all cheer and say

Chorus

Light it up, Santa

Won’t you light it up, Santa Claus

We won’t stop making jolly

Till all the girl’s hair is filled with sprigs of holly

Light it up, Dear Santa

Won’t you light it up, Santa Claus

Ain’t no rockin’ round this tree

Till you flip that E-LEC-TRIC-ITY

Verse 3 

Yes, it’s true, the youngest hearts

May find an easy spark

Of Christmas cheer and spirit

When the pine tree lighting starts

Verse 4

But oldsters, don’t you fret

You’ ll find your own joy, yet

When you hear the kids fa-la-la’n

You’ll cheer right along and say

Chorus

Light it up, Santa

Won’t you light it up Santa Claus

We won’t stop making jolly

Till all the girl’s hair is filled with sprigs of holly

Light it up, Dear Santa

Won’t you light it up, Santa Claus

Ain’t no rockin round this tree

Till you flip that E-LEC-TRIC-I-TY

As the leaves are leaving, we are raking up poems to shorten the stretching evening. Send us your best story poem of no more than 25 lines. Make it spooky, make it warm, write and tell us a story like only a poem can, short, sweet, and surprising.

The trees are in their autumn beauty,	 
The woodland paths are dry,	 
Under the October twilight the water	 
Mirrors a still sky;	 
Upon the brimming water among the stones	         
Are nine and fifty swans.	 
  
The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me	 
Since I first made my count;	 
I saw, before I had well finished,	 
All suddenly mount	  
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings	 
Upon their clamorous wings.	 
  
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,	 
And now my heart is sore.	 
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,	  
The first time on this shore,	 
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,	 
Trod with a lighter tread.	 
  
Unwearied still, lover by lover,	 
They paddle in the cold,	  
Companionable streams or climb the air;	 
Their hearts have not grown old;	 
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,	 
Attend upon them still.	 
  
But now they drift on the still water	  
Mysterious, beautiful;	 
Among what rushes will they build,	 
By what lake's edge or pool	 
Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day	 
To find they have flown away?

This poem is in the public domain

‘Style is the answer to everything–

a fresh way to approach a dull or a

dangerous thing.

to do a dull thing with style

is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it.

he darkness that has caused so much aggravation

Has never felt so clear

I look in the mirror and see nothing but abomination

The time is near

All I seek is acclamation

But what I see in those eyes is nothing but fear

The darkness is closing in as my mind shifts

These emotions I feel come and go

It’s like a roller coaster that seem to drift

I fly up above as you see below

It has now caused a rift

All I want in life are things that are aglow

The darkness has swallowed me whole

When will my time come to an end

Take my feelings and console

The angels have heard me and have ascend

Come high above as it’s out of my control

It’s time to contend

Now that the darkness is in full cycle

And the angels are near

My emotions have become an aberration

I can’t see past this fear

My mind is acidification

It’s nothing more than austere

The time has come that the darkness has lifted

Angels come to take me out of this misery

Those clouds have shifted

As my mind is not so blurry

Thank god for the angels that have gifted

Time has settled its now been a century

We are looking for submission for the summer issues of the Poetry Cooperative Magazine. The topic is UNITY. Please send us up to three poems, preferably no longer than two pages, in any form or style. Let’s celebrate what binds us all together.

Email to submissions@poetrycooperative.org, Our submission window is open until the end of July.

One of seven billion plus, no?       Perhaps this is not so any longer

can it be?     After this last year?       2020,  20/20?

Eyes wide open

what did we see?

So much death.       So much     so many in place of decision

even now thru decision           and not making decision adding to the incredible numbers of deaths.                               Numbers hard to encompass their reality. Still in the context of our supposed numbers overall,

the question necessarily surfaces

within at least this mind always attempting seeing clearly,

what impact pandemics’ happenstance(?) on world population?

It, for those concerned for us of the future resources available and to so many, central to their calculation.             Necessarily true, then to a mind of this kind comes question of pandemic                                         and even possibly vaccine in some other fashions’                      part in providing solution to this question. The capitalist, governmental mind                                                    from my study clearly historically able

to see the positive side

to all the common man

finds horrific.

There is to the finally coming to clearsighted awareness

thru, for some, individual significant persons and intimate situation

and for others clear understanding of the history

of mankinds’ relation to itself,

that the retreat into the depths of themselves

sure of their inability to be a self

reflective

or one protective enough

has its reason.

Not biochemical misfirings of different component parts of the brain

and/or

inabilty to control emotion.

Can’t find it conspiratorial fantasy

to recognize in supposed coincidence

and lifes’ just being life,        the continuing

over especially the last 20 years

occurrences that have as part of their every happening

the profiting of those occupying

the upper tiers

of the pyramid                                      that is humanity.               Or find it mental illness,

the truth

of sight

of those occupyings’

willingness to do those things of profit to them

and horrific

to the minds of those unable to accept it as human.

Seems to be no thought given                  to the sensitivities of those empathetic to the suffering of others

as reason

for the manifestations of differences in behavior

defined as mental illness.                                          In too many personal lives thru to what’s there to be seen on the world stage,

mans’ understanding of himself as predator.

So many of the educated

sure of mans’ animalistic beginnings

seemingly ignorant

of the possible, probable inner worlds

of those

recognizing themselves

as prey.

Like a new leaf in spring turning over the tide

I learnt my first words barely a cry

But as I grew up, so did my words,

They bloomed like the flowers, giving me life.

Then came the summer, where my words grew afresh,

I was eager to face a challenge and even lost some bets,

Never gave up did I, to fight for my way,

My words gave me strength and the courage to be brave.

Autumn came by in a dazzle of gold and red

And thus my heart began to beat in blushes of red

Your sweet words gave me hope and lightened my life

Eager to be with you, I gave you my word for you to be mine.

Years later, on a bleak wintery night,

My words came out cold and uttered a cry

Your words were a whip that lashed me out

Words never to be forgotten and kept me out of your sight.

Funny as it seems, how these words shaped my life

I learned to be strong and carried on my light.

stepped out of time as the day to day

and stand in the moment continuing, that one, mine, behind time

where I am just…, and contemplate life surrounding, coalesced, and am amazed, despite the darkness

part of the journey

made up of my ignorance of knowing how and fear of being, that I live, loved, and home means peace

I stand there, that self I am always, since…, behind, knowing I am not times’, time, somehow having made it’s way to reflecting my always’ need

she rises to go inside and Spike he follows, I tell her, “I’m coming”, and am thankful continuing to Him for the one allowing my always

a home, in time

and I close the door, behind me

Anyone who writes poetry wants to know what makes a poem a poem rather than embarrassing ramblings. I’m posting Daniel Tysdal’s Ted talk here. In simple terms, he describes how to write a great poem as opposed to an average one. Enjoy!

To end the year on a high note, we are offering poets Annual Gold Membership at a special price. You will get the same support and perks only now, the membership is less expensive.

Sign Up Now!

The long awaited morning has come .
It has come to pass.
I have seen you again.
My dead dread has resurrected
And moved to the seventh heaven,
My tears have ended.
I know I will no longer go tired
Wiping the over flowing tears
From my tiny spherical eyes.
My visage is happy to cry happily.

The long awaited afternoon has come
It has come to pass.
I have seen you again.
I have come out of
The coffin of loneliness
And death will never again
Storm my demanding heart
My friends are good
And indeed very good
But you are best and excellent
Please, my lost one
Clap hands for yourself.

The long awaited e evening has come
It has come to pass
I have seen you again
The dimpled piggy cheeks,
The shiny well created eyes,
The gorgeous happy face-
A face never gloomy and sad.
The warm gifted bosom,
The soft palms of your arms,
And the succulent lips.
I will kiss again
Because you’re the chosen Mary
Among the virgins.
You are homely welcome
And the rest I don’t know.

…………EMMA CHIPUKIZI…….
0787050916-0750122685
THE NABENDE WRITING FAMILY
“Education made our eyes sprout”
Email:thenabendewritingfamily@gmail.com
UGANDA CHRISTIAN UNIVERSITY

Continue reading “I found you Again” →

when comes the mistaken taking of life/Christian one/believing man/that one who’s right as far as you’re concerned/when comes the mistaken taking of life/led, step by step/for reason/all to do now/the asking of forgiveness…/       of the Father…/will you then/…will you then/ decide on His understanding/of love the other/     as yourself

In the dead of night the little Goths come out-
their startlingly masked, chiaroscuro visage
with fluorescent yellow disc eyes when light finds them,
shining like luciferin and luciferase reacting in the firefly-
and their cautious, staccato, and slinking movements
obvious against the freshly painted white picket fence,
like splashed gentian violet on a wedding dress.

In wistful November
these few straggler raccoons, huge,
come out,
in preparation for their seasonal sleep.

One enters the garden through
the square framed hole we cut for
all God’s creatures through the fence-
tabby, tuxedo, and calico kittens, ‘coon kits,
an opossum jill and her joeys, garden snakes,
squirrels, railroad-line field mice,
Mourning and Rock Doves.
He barely pulls himself though,
then arches high and stretches into his fullness,
looking like a small bear,
before he cases the yard,
before he plans his zigzag, concrete and dirt-sniffing
approach to the freshly filled plates and bowls.

This humongous, ticked raccoon
finds Sassie, a one-eyed tortoise shell cat,
left behind by a moving family
and forever having kittens,
already at the plates;
they eat in peace,
while a shy, grey-faced opossum jack
darts under an elevated outdoor fire pit-
too many critters to feel safe-
until all is quiet again.

Who blessed me with the care and
companionship of these creatures?
My little burghal, backyard zoo.

Bellied Sassie saunters slowly to the right,
to her between-houses escape route,
the masked ‘coon face keeps
checking me for friendliness,
then pins the plate with his wide, star-fish paw,
to get the outer halo of pate on the plate,
while his mate peeks her curious head
out of the fence hole, to watch
these nocturnal goings-on,
or, more accurately,
to fill those autumnal pangs in her belly.

He stares me down, grabs the Oreo I left,
then treads along the cement line to the fence,
makes a short stop to sniff
the calico cat’s grave stone,
takes a step up upon it,
then tries to heave his
exploding November girth
through the fence hole,
this foray for food coming to a close.

Small yellow leaves pepper the place-
I tediously pick them out of the food
every day this time of year-
the rows of wind-gathered, golden confetti
following the lines of concrete squares,
with gentle curves framing
the feeding and lounging areas,
and the goodness of God in the still night air.

–Fenna Thomas

I mean, this stuff happens in the deep,
deep homesteading Midwest,
where 10 year old sons routinely
work butcher knives, prepping
pumpkin squash, ham hocks,
for eating or freezing.
I’ve seen pictures of them unshod
in barns smiling,
no safeties on anything.

Once there were Chestnut trees
foresting the American East Coast.
But that Japanese Parasite killed them.
The people of Appalachia
got an economic kick in the nuts,
and the foraging fauna felt it, too.

Johhny Appleseed,
horticulturalist minister
and sleeper in corn cribs,
would put Quakers and hip-hop fashionista
both in their place
with his saucepan cap-turned-backwards.
He traipsed around like that,
then cooked meals in his hat.
No one thought much about it,
or that he might be a nut case.

On the Savannah, Ohio lawn of Amy Sheaffer,
the last, extant, gnarled and knotted
original Appleseed tree still grows
just outside her kitchen door.
It still rains apples. When fall comes,
it just rains apples.

So the kids get tricked-
she makes her applesauce
with star anise, cloves, cinnamon sticks,
and vanilla from Madagascar,
a rich, thick chutney.
They imbibe in grateful near-gluttony.

Once served
in the 1920’s boardinghouse-
cheap filler-

and still is, tepid,

from US Government surplus,
over-sized jars
in public school lunchrooms.

Fractal vegetable-                                                                                                                                               self-similar, edible flower-
pyramidal chartreuse curds
or lime in color,
this brassica.

Wonder-inducing Fibonacci sequence,
its piquance a hit for North Brooklyn hipsters,
or still-growing, not-knowing bridesmaids
ringing thrice, even quadrice marked-up bottles
of bottom-of-the barrel Crane Lake chardonnay,
snug in ice buckets on outdoor tables.

All in masks,
They don’t mind paying for the experience.

I made up the word “quadrice” for this poem. I hope I don’t go to poetry or linguistics purgatory for this! The inspiration for this poem came from my getting my first box of “Misfits Market” produce delivered, and the fractal beauty of the Romanesco cauliflower inside the box blew me away.

Ariana, adopted the old Greek ways,

when Nikos died diving for sponges.

She encased her curses into two lead stones:

smuggling one into his coffin,

dropping the other into Naxos deepest well.

She made sure Nikos soul would

carry her curse to the underworld

before it ascended to heaven,

or activated fully on the river of forgetfulness

for Death to see, read, feel her grief.

She had hired the local poet who still

remembered all the magical phrases

and could reverse the flow of words.

She wanted Death

to throw himself to the crows,

split like she was divided inside,

perish the same way Nikos drowned,

damned Death’s eyes to drunkenness

till he became a burden to the earth,

a useless sack of spoiled wine.

As she turned back and

started to look away

she heard Nikos voice echo to her.

She turned around  and  In

the mist that crawled away to the Aegean

was revealed three Cretan hounds snarling

behind the gate of the rich shipbuilder’s house.

The sea, the earth the sky collapsed in her.

The sound of tides, the swirling dust, the rain were

mocking this girl who knew only ordinary curses,

this widow doomed to live a long, grieving life

listening for Nikos sounds until her very end.

We exist in

unkeepable bodies

and in the bending over

we decompose

for we are

are but the

memory of grief

that soft bodies

leave when they die.

My love is like a mysterious wind

Ever changing and always there

Can’t be tamed or controlled

Always waiting to catch me

Leaving as I reach out

And then I catch it

And I fall down

Leaving the earth in a state of euphoria

Where no one can find us

And no one ever will

Cleansing my soul

Reaching down into the depths

Looking for answers

Learning I am complete

Finding my way back with Him

I learned to love myself

I no longer walk alone

I made it through to the other side

I keep fighting

I’ll never give up

Darkness falling

Words empty

I saw the light in you

I wish I had loved you before you left

All that remains is me

Sleepless nights and endless days,

Counting for hope that’s once lost,

Thinking about the rheumatic past,

Makes me realize what I have lost.

People come and people go,

For I would not see you,

You who showed me light,

You who I’ve let go.

If only I could turn back time,

Bring back what’s once was mine,

Mend the past for a healing future,

Mend all the regrets and crimes.

If, if only I could see you again,

Once more in this shimmering light,

Standing next to me like in the past days,

Watching over like an angel at night,

Till we meet again.

In the house made of waterproof canvas

We’ll listen  out for the sounds

Expecting big hairy footsteps

Making prints upon the ground

You better make sure the zip of the tent

Is done up nice and tight

And keep one ear, one eye open

Whilst sleeping in the night

You could fall asleep and start dreaming

A nightmare, call it as you will

About the big hairy Sasquatch

Committing the most gruesome a kill

You may just hear him coming at you

A twig snapping in between trees

You’ll be in your sleeping bag

Feeling the shakes in your knees

You’ll reach your hands down

Feeling around with no sight

Looking for torches and axes

To get you through this night

You try stopping your mates from snoring

Only to wake up yourself and see

It was all just a dream that made you sweat

You start you fall back asleep

Then you hear the zip start to move

The seam becoming undone

And before you can let out a scream

Your vocal chords will be gone

Mace-
it packs
a little punch
to the face,

Hitting parts
like eyes, mouths,
that are open,
moist, round.

Less leveling
brother to
pepper-spray
capsicum,
I concede
this requiem.

But there is
sister Mace.
She is non-violent,
a pacifist,

and wraps herself
around the nutmeg seed,
and when dried,
ground,
can feed and feed.

Subtle.
Floral.
Royal.

Nice on
white fish,
root vegetables.

Intricate webbing-
red as
a baboon’s hinie,
but not as stinkey.

Who burried
this medieval
spice?

I would
think twice
before looking
askance,

and hope our repasts
nurture tolerance.

     I read that state police no longer use mace on protesters, because it is not effective on alcoholics, drug addicts, and schizophrenics. Pepper spray is what they use today. As a non-violent Quaker, I just use the culinary spice blade mace in the kitchen, and it’s an upgrade from nutmeg, which can be too heavy in dishes. It’s wonderful in cream soups, too! Let’s do things positively on this planet, homeboys and homegirls!

The Nino de Atocha statue
in the front persona of the house
floats on a cloud of marijuana smoke,
the heavenly white base chipped,
pocked grey from neglect.

They murdered the pine trees.

Not even on their property.

Drunk Uncle pruned them,
so the birds wouldn’t crap
on their five non-garaged cars
until they looked like
eight asparagus spears in a row,
branches tragically amputated,
trees leaning like the guest who staggered out
the side of their house once during a party.

That’s how you kill a tree.

Two late winter pines began to keel,
so they hired Mexicans from Jackson Heights,
the cheapest labor they could find,
and cut all eight down.

And left them there,

behind the fence,
a dam, embedded now with barbed wire,
for crepuscular vespertine, and nocturnal
wildlife kin to dodge,
like homo sapien sapien would
with land mines.

They shot the trees.

The landscape has teeth missing.

It’s the back of what looks like
a grey metal airport hangar now.

Property value down by 10 K for everybody,
for yard-turned-car parking garage convenience.

Pocahontas’ Grandmother Willow would tell them
to follow their paths straight to hell.

The smell of skunk herb
wafts into and around my homestead-
aging-out MC Stoner Boy is still in his mother’s attic
mixing, bass boost rattling adjacent houses.
There is no escape. Incessant, deep thuds
marinate brain stems

for years. The quiet neighbor
on the other side
is very old and sick. Says nothing.
Maybe he knows that
when the shadow is ignored
and inflates the group- little neighbor mob-
it’s like trying to talk the finer points of
metaphysical philosophy
to a lobotomized Frances Farmer.

Drunk Uncle once pointed to his
left upper-arm tattoo in passing-
a cartoon-like, third world Christ Child with a halo,
in a deluded and desperate attempt
to proclaim what a good Christian he was.

Yet he and his 50 K-a-year car parking garage
and night-shift security worker acquaintances
grind shit-faced dancing
with Latinas they barely know.

Upon first acquaintance, Stoner Boy
once offered, “Hi! I’m Hispanic.”
I did not offer, “Nice to meet you! I’m Caucasian”,
as I don’t greet in that way. Ever.
I was so thrown.

The pine tree is considered sacred
in most world cultures.
It shelters birds, squirrels, chipmunks,
raccoons, opossums, porcupines-
it gives us pine nuts,
the most coveted and nutritious
evergreen seed in the world.
We decorate our homes, cabins,
baskets, generous with the cones,
hang them glitter-sprayed on Christmas trees,
or just hold them in our hands,
marveling at their sacred geometry,
at the beautiful gift Gaia has given.

I dreamt of three snakes last night.
Each got progressively bigger.
The last was swimming through
a central waterway on my property,
its circumference as big as a sewage pipe
that takes it all outside of your house.
It had little feet-fins in front, like primitive fish,
to help it walk- that’s how huge it was.

I am not called to roll a faux joint and tape it
to the mouth of Nino de Atocha,
or stuff their mailbox with so many packs
of rolling paper rendering it unusable;

I can hire artists from Brooklyn’s Bushwick,
bloody starving for cash in this pandemic,
just to embarrass them-
have them surreptitiously climb up at night
to paint a mural on the exposed hangar surface
of Drunk Uncle knocking back Corona after Corona-
once he left some dead cat on my front stoop
in a Corona beer box with no note in January –
one of his aging, baby-mamma sisters dutifully carries out
his beer bottles in huge blue bags,
slung over her back for recycling,
like a hunchback, labored Santa- that’s her job.
They can paint Stoner Boy, too,
savoring another blunt toke just huffed-

But despite unconsciousness, selfishness,
inconsideration, and lawbreaking in a flailing city-
the dream snakes announce that I am the one
heading for some transformation-
some big-ass transformation.

I need to breathe.
I need to move,
and live where trees lives matter.

                               Inspired By The Poetry Of Robert Lax                         

                                                            cranial

                                                            calcified

                                                            pipping

                                                            point

                                                             chipping

                                                             chipping

                                                             chipping

                                                             chipping

                                                              tapping

                                                              tapping

                                                              tapping

                                                              tapping

                                                              if

                                                              I

                                                              stay

                                                              here

                                                              I

                                                              will

                                                              die

                                                               fissure

                                                               split

                                                               light

                                                                how

                                                                lush

                                                                the

                                                                violet

                                                                dusk

If I shut the border,

no one will shut their window,

hide in their closet,

lock their door.

They would shake the blinds of moths,

bring the dog in from the doghouse,

let the cat feast after the mouse hole

has been plugged with a door wedge.

In the distance

the train whistle blows

dispersing mist and rain.

No one steps off nor boards.

The bird nest is not abandoned.

The hollow of the tree stays hollow.

Nothing has shut down at all.

My pen scribbles a poem

only to watch the black words

return to the reservoir.

I open the dictionary to the word “hope”,

but the page refuses to settle

until I put all the words in them

face down on the writing table.

My stoma grumbles louder than my stomach.

I shut my cancer in the mother-of-pearl.

My wife’s cancer is placed in the

small valise of all our memories.

I can’t shut down the museum.

It already is.

I can’t shut down the cinemas.

They already are.

Only the pharmacies are open.

I shut down my mouth

on my broken jaw

with five missing teeth

only to feel the maw of death.

I shut down the ash of my childhood

into a golden urn of my own design.

I shut down America, I shut down God,

putting them both between the now

empty covers of the dictionary missing hope.

I shut down my passions, my emotions

in the moldy basement of my despair.

My shut down love is chained in the dungeon.

Shut up, shut down,  I repeat  to myself,

until those words lose all definition,

until my lips are sealed in pain and

the only thing left is my total shutdown.