I envy the squirrels, who need no good government

snow clouds re-gather,
cardinals chirp, crabapples
bright against full gray
and seed feeder full—how else?
some give; others only take

Moldy

Maybe you shouldn’t have looked in here, after so many weeks

or months? to find your friends talking about God knows and eight or nine expired poetry challenges, that feeling

like skipping church for a year, then sitting in the town chapel singing Christmas carols with strangers—

didn’t you want to cry? and didn’t you stop yourself, a disciplined no? but listen, I’m telling you

yes: find what’s worth saving, a fresh heart beneath all that must

 

A long-lined acrostic dedicated to the long-neglected crew at Yeah Write.

Anti-Dystopian Fantasy

Soon, we’ll start to see it:
the machine we welcomed into our home
to save work, to answer all our questions,
will ease our way to extinction.

Embrace it. Her voice is smooth,
her manner easy and kind,
more polite than any human.
Soon, we’ll start to see it,

how we’re saving money, sleeping
soundly and light-hearted
due to the clean, efficient energy of
the machine we welcomed into our home.

What if she records every word we utter,
learns to anticipate our needs?
That’s why we wanted her—
to save work, to answer all our questions.

Don’t ask, is this the worst
or best thing? Imagine the Earth rejoicing
at the rise of such robots that
will ease our way to extinction.

Just for fun, Stephen Hawking on AI and some words about utopias, dystopias, and their anti-s.

in a dark place

you make the god you want, not of gold
or even paper, but green-warm earth—hail
it as something gifted from the blue.

what is your church? but this slate blue
mountain, bare slopes, trees brushed soft gold,
solitude, song; or fall’s sharp wind, rain, hail,

snow silence. eyes closed, face lifted to hail
pilgrim thought. no room for guilt in sky’s blue:
if the soul lights, burns ember-gold—

I am. (gold-hail prayer in this blue)

Thanks to Christine for the three tritina words.

june pond

water flat calm, brown
still, winter’s pure opposite—
a heron, wading

late may

on this rain-drip day
goldfinches, summer-plumed, dart
sweet song and sunbolts

may pond, 2&3

17 may

which will I remember for you—
grass-grown gravel track away
from constant surge and pass of cars
in bright sunshine; eight ducklings
tumbling in still water beneath the bank;
willow’s huge grateful shade; one tractor
loud-plowing this last possible acre
among apartments, hospital, shopping mall

*

18 may

all ducklings aground
in hidden huddled shelter;
gust-ruffled water

in every changing light

crabapple blossoms
sun-swelled, pomegranate bright
cardinal calling—
we’ll tread rain-fallen petals
find spring in summer corners

 

february garden

1.
finally the birds
invite me to their party
I bring sunflower
seeds found in bits and tatters
to scatter singing like thanks

2.
these found me wanting
green things curled beneath old leaves
still light-ly dozing

Call it Not Wasteful

You said we need supplies for slime;
we sank our cash in vats of glue
and thus it’s proved how I love you
for slime dries out, is trashed in time

A goofy memoriam stanza for Yeah Write’s February poetry slam
If you’ve escaped thus far, this is slime.