I wish I were a mockingbird

I wish I were
a mockingbird
beyond the reach
of human cant –
can’t step 
around the hate of
all that is
different.

So easy is
the blackbird life
who squawks at me
upon the beach –
his reach is plain
for all to see
he has no use
for human greed.
Newborn babes
are all he needs.

When I hear the chant
go back from where
you came, these
human games meant
to horrify –
vilify, destroy, sweet
bird of youth oh
weep humanity
weep –

to see the rise of
jingoist of
nationalist defined
by foreign
intervention meant
to keep us blind

to all the evil
we have wrought
on the living
from chickadee
to mouse. I
would fly away
if I could and
find another
house where
difference is
hailed with
love enough
for all of us.

A world of earthly delights

 I am close, too close I know
when the tree swallow
divebombs me –
Stay away! Stay away!
The click, click, click
replaces his usual
song. This is how
walking goes during the
season of nests.

You created a monster
he told his wife. I
am a woman undone
by feathers and
flying things. Is it truly
yellow, or has the haze
from the heat mislaid
my sense of color
yet again? Well, when
three of us agree I
can relax regarding color.
Perhaps. It is always
perhaps.

The goldfinch sits with
surveillance in his eyes.
Perhaps a tiny morsel
from echinacea in
late September skies
will figure in a meal.
I let the seed heads
waft until spring.
They reward me with
passerines.

The elderberry bush
leans into the path.
I reel it back and
proceed to other wonders.
When did the purslane
take over?
I hear the meow
before I see him-
elegant catbird
winging towards
the dawn. This
is the time for me.
It is cool and noisy
with birdsong,
drowning out distractions
which litter my mind.

 

Star stuff

On the dike he frolics –
an otter captured
through the corner of
my eye, while the
ibis flees, not allowing
me to espy a
silhouette framed by
raindrops. I must
be crazy, soaked like
these creatures, near
relatives by chromosome.
Meanwhile a pheasant
ventures across the
road. Life is good
here and now, this
second decade of the
second century of
my life.

But will the methane
spin from control
like the carbon
at heaven’s door?
At century’s end
will the bluebirds fly,
otters frolic on
the dike
from the corner
of my eye?

The reach of humans
has achieved a
language undefined,
by Random House ’83,
the polar vortex
known perhaps to
scientists but
not to me in ’83.
Meanwhile plastic,
lovely plastic creeps
through the sea,
bane of manatee,
foe of jaws, and
feathers of the sea
and air, passing on
to those who eat
this man-made pseudo-
food. What else is new?
Bees are busy
while the breeze
kills the lifeline –
buzz, buzz.
Will the spring
continue the song
or will we kill it-
and silence reign
again?

The farmer, perhaps
he knows all that
is enclosed in the
soil, keeper of
carbon, calcium and all
that depend upon it,
this – our society.
There is a continual
battle, with fields awash,
and seeds planted later
than ’35 when my
grandfather worked with
two horses and a plow.
This profession is
beleaguered and yet without
it we cannot stay put.
These very words
I natter with depend
upon staying put.

Stardust star stuff,
all that makes
the living us and
oh, my darlings
can’t you see
greed will be
the death of me –
me the ibis,
me the stork,
me the ape
who learned
to walk.
Greed will be
the death of me,
greed will be
the death of we,
neither swan nor
ape will live to see
the end of
century.

Favorite things

The eye of a vireo
like Dorothy’s ruby red,
when I actually see it
my grin opens wide.

The carpet newly vacuumed,
the dishes put away,
the sheets when pulled from dryer,
the smell of them laying down.

My father’s voice resounding
with ‘How great thou art’,
my mother’s apple pie,
no birthday went without.

The sun rising over Huron
and setting at Loon Lake,
the snow on trees in winter,
the leaves in fall to rake.

Martin’s arc of justice
for which we struggle still,
the ending of all war
the triumph of good will.

Cups running over

It has always been
the age – hasn’t it,
when children are raped
and pay for it
with a nod to sorrow.
The guzzlers then move on
with laws that punish
vessels.

You would think perhaps
in the world of new,
whether York or Orleans,
we could see our way
through the rage that
strikes at the vulnerable.
But that will never do
for the venerable ones,
who are the same wherever
you wander to,
sitting on thrones
constructed with glue
that shatter from
the weight of unknown
guilt since
guilt is a ruse for
the poor alone.

The word feminist
still creeps people out,
worse than the word
rapist (unless he is black)
and when the language
is criminalized the
voter’s face has stubble
and reeks of lily white.

The lily smells of perfume
when first she sees the light,
but the stain upon your clothes
will never wear off.

Fly off dark eyed junco

Fly off dark eyed junco
fly away home.
I’m tired of the snow
that sits at April’s door.
I want to see the crocuses
on my garden floor.
Fly away little junco
fly away home.

Welcome chipping sparrow
with the annoying song.
Irritate me with your
chipping –
yes please
bring it on.
The music brings relief
from the darkness before dawn.

Hello beloved sisters
resilience is our name.
Equality’s pace is scheduled
for confirmation – give or take
in a hundred years,
so we may as well
enjoy the birds,
the singing of the birds.

Per the Global Gender Gap Report 2018, World Economic Forum the Economic Gender Gap will close in 108 years.

Even weeds are useful

When vanity rules the world
let humility rise
like the vapor from old Faithful,
let it rise,
let it rise.

When cruelty runs amok
Let kindness be your guide
anywhere, anyhow,
give everyone
your smile.

Mister death may wait
outside the garden door,
the vulture may soar above
eying sorrow
here below,
the mothers may be broken
when children are expendable,
but-
be kind anyways,
anyways be kind.

When the world
thinks you are a weed,
you can find a home
in me, as the seed heads
feed the pollinators,
spreading life around
and the root of
dandelion digs
deep into the ground
letting the soil breathe –
that is what you
mean to me,
a treasure gone unnoticed,
how I love a weed!

You human of the Nile
and rainforest tree,
your beautiful language
inflects and decrees
a love I have for you
despite all the hatred
that can make a soul despair,
despite the human ego
stealing more than share of
all that makes us singular.

Let the anthem ring and ring,
be kind anyways –
kindness is the thing.

 

Red Yellow Brown

The American beauty rose
And a single prick
Of blood that flows
Marking all the land
The male cardinal
Everything grand

—

Sunflower opening
And seeking the sun
The sun! from
Which all living
Comes –
The canary in
The coalmine
Will the people
Be undone?

—

A female tweeter
Seeking seed
The sand
Beneath my feet
A naked tree
In winter
Whose roots
Run deep

—

Rainbow people
Listen –
America’s hero said
have a dream
dreaming of a future
never ending
The colors of this arc
Compliment and bend
Supporting each other
Justice without end

2018