Grief

 

 

Grief

 

The felon felled over four-hundred trees,

no oxygen to breathe,

no coolness or relief

from the destruction he causes

behaving like a capricious king,

an insecure being

without a moral compass

targeting those who disagree.

 

Trees do disagree.

 

They embrace the richness of their branches,

attuned to the change of seasons,

the opposite of him.

The trees are forever free,

until the tyrant cuts them off

with senseless glee.

 

His voters clap and chant “USA”,

raping the Earth that sustains us

is okay to them

for they create their own hell.

 

Blaming others for their blunders

will always be their way

unless they choose to learn,

their life would flourish then,

a window to the past may wipe out their delusions,

If only they could learn that they create their hell.

A tree can be a teacher

if only they could learn…

 

 

 

With the support of his voters,

billionaires, dictators and kings

the insecure tyrant can go as far 

as a Halloween terror scene.

 

Not even the trees can protect themselves

from his odious disdain,

 monster-like actions

cheered by his sycophants

babbling and wobbling with rage

inside the pockets of Putin,

in their misery and stench.

They will never be free

from tyranny and hell.

 

 The felon felled over four-hundred trees,

an insecure being who believes he is a king,

desperate to stay out of jail

along with his wealthy friends:

rapists, pedophiles,

Cowards, abusers and who knows what else…

 

Four hundred trees lost

under the orders of a deranged tyrant

 staying out of jail.

No oxygen,

no coolness or relief from the destruction he causes,

an insecure being without a moral compass

with only his wealth to protect.

 

The Art of Living

 

 What is the point of a rollercoaster?

 Life is already one of uncertain proportions;

there is no need to build one.

 I've never understood boredom;

each day of life is unique,

like a masterpice carved with exceptional devotion,

creative accidents and purposeful additions coalesce,

illustrations, sounds and metaphors spring up

out of crevices,

moments of mystery,

intrigue, unanswered questions,

dilemmas.

Discipline holds the waters of time

running wild,

washing away, eroding, molding,

summoning up traces of teachings,

knowledge, nostalgia into a dance

of wisdom,

                    grace,

                               adventure.

Fraud and Waste

 

 He treasures marble and gold,

kings and kingdoms,

clings to gifts made out of blood,

ready to serve masters of war and hell.

Freedom and democracy are victims of rape.

Hate vibrates around him, cowardly,

while he lectures on waste,

the need to spend more 

on less dolls and toys

to build up a future his cult dreams of.

He is busy now,

coddling his plane,

covets the world  for his own charade.

Twenty first century tethered to a video game,

encapsulating the circus in place,

homeless disdained,

workers to pay,

hate has the space needed to elevate 

the king, 

to protect his well set-up charade of science denial,

the spreading of diseases and worsening climate change. 

Clean Conscience

 

 

 

It is not an empty mansion.

It is space to thrive and grow,

elated being of hope hands in the elements

to feel at ease,

 and rest or work.

It is the expansion of the breath beyond its means,

the sense of being at home

 to stay wherever the heart sings;

 It is the sensation of being cradled by the Earth,

impelled by the sweetness of freedom.

Tenacity upholds the ideals of this endless walk toward belief and light,

toward the parts that make us whole.

It is the infinite inside,

the precious blessings that nobody can touch or steal

with hatred or resentment.

As courage buoys us up, we leave behind the dullness of disdain,

their vacuous intentions evaporate within the infinite within

because the infinite within is light,

and their anger is made of senseless hate and pain.

The forever tenderness that keeps the being alive

in its pure state of being keeps extricating itself 

from the prisons enemies dream to impose on us,

while a couple of monarch butterflies

 draw our attention toward a dance 

to the rhythm of Mother Nature’s kindness.

 

 

Our impassioned spirit swells in aspirations,

caring and fresh,

like a new flower facing the morning sun

with the upright ethos of belief.

The infinite within nourishes the self,

kindling the start of a new day with life.

 

 Note: this poem is about resilience and following one's conscience.

A Week of Delight

 

Gratitude smiles

 in eyes made of water,

hands made of clean air,

in the spirit of kindness,

we celebrate a week of delight.

 

The quality of air is good today… how long will it last?

Oppressive clouds of smoky air scared us a few days ago,

 now gratitude emerges under a new clear light:

We can fully grasp the value of this precious gift.

After a long persistent drought

a generous blanket of fresh rain finally embraced the body of Mother Earth

where our garden grows.

The plants perked up.

The garden beams in vibrant flowers.

The soil, content, revitalized the hearts of the creatures around us.

The bunnies played new games.

The toads must be dancing in their cool sanctuaries.

We celebrate a week of delight,

the kindness of a neighbor offering us homegrown food.

Tears of joy are not enough to explain it.

 

Gratitude smiles in eyes of water,

hands made of clean air,

kindness that abounds.

 

 

 

 

 

The Little Girl and the Bully

 

          

         The little girl knows her letters

          but she pretends she doesn't.

         The bully's charm captivated the teacher's world.

          He knows the numbers when the time is right,

          his smile is precise.

          He emulates his heroes

          and can play all the games that make him giggle.

         The little girl pretends she cannot see,

          the bully is taking chances,

         his boundaries lapse into his private land

         of gunshot images and scuffles.

        All he needs to do is to believe,

       so he is told,

       a fighter can always win.

       The little girl is hiding down somewhere,

        there are no shortcuts to heaven.

 Note: this poem was first published in 2014 by an online journal called Black Mirror Magazine. (This journal does not exist anymore.) This poem is included in the collection "She Opened the Cage". 

Photo by Dave Reed. Source: unsplash.com

Invitation

 

 Invited to our home,

you searched for weapons

and there were none.

Our empty house is not empty.

Light dreams float in the air,

the windows extend into the sky;

we can merge with the silhouettes of the trees,

dance to the rhythm of the seasons, 

craft new stars...

Note: this poem is a metaphor about incompatible friendships. It was included in the poetry collection "She Opened the Cage". 

 The photo by Matthew Smith was obtained from Unsplash.com.