just out of reach
you beseech
like flitting birds
you take my words.
i wish i could hold
my hand out bold
snatch you from the sky
take you by and by.
but here i’ll stay
forget our play
disappointment rests
on what you think’s best.
conservation
Birthday Party
it is her first invite
(i wish it was her last)
and we sit in awkward silence
exchanging knowing looks
we’re surrounded by excess fat
skimmed off meat
once set aside just for the rich that has
oozed into our barely-middle class neighborhood
in gluttonous globs it surrounds
even the youngest rosy cheeks,
tripping and slipping their every step
as they unwrap, unwrap, unravel.
by coming here today, we are guilty,
and though our portion size is smaller,
it sits at the edge of the heaped-to-ceiling plate,
torn to bits in minutes by a ferocious four-year-old.
we take our leftovers in six baggies home,
but they are not for the dog. they are for us,
our girls, to chew on all evening, to try and
fill the growling hole in our gut-wrenched stomachs.
Everything Included
we could walk
but we prefer to ride
they hop in
with three pennies,
jubilant voices,
and a mission.
we arrive at the
perfectly painted plastic horse
covered in vinyl saddle
where they climb up and down
riding like pro cowgirls
when five minutes have passed
they head for the cookie aisle
where disappointment sits
plainly on the empty tray.
instead, we pack on our helmets
to continue our weekday adventure,
the wind blowing allergen-ridden dust,
remnants of summer’s sun
beating down on our backs.
i follow the oldest, who
weaves like a drunk driver
through the sidewalk,
into the street,
everywhere her heart takes her.
a giant, loud-mouthed dog
greets our arrival. we reach
with skinny arms into
the abundantly fat-with-fruit trees,
pulling down ripe green pears,
apples with red dimples.
the dog continues to carry on,
and just as i wonder if he’s here
as a warning for us to leave,
a woman’s voice calls over the fence,
“Take as many as you can.”
And we do, the tangy juice
of tiny homegrown fruits
sliding down the girls’ chins,
dripping into the pile at the bottom
of the trailer, sweetening
our end-of-summer afternoon,
sweetening our time here, now.
everything included:
the bikes,
the horse,
the absent cookie,
the fruit,
for three pennies,
jubilant children,
and a mission.
One Stretch of Road
one stretch of road
that all my life
living here
i’ve never seen
how it curves and dips
reveals a view
of peaks and forests
of bicyclists making
their way to their next destination
(here is where the heart is)
of log cabins
and tiny towns
hidden trails
and geocaches
campgrounds tucked in
amongst aspens
and dirt roads
and i am reminded
(do i need a reminder?)
of why i am here,
why we are here
here
here
on this curvy
dipping winding road
that takes us home.
Kingfisher
along this suburban street,
my narrow tires sideswipe a kingfisher
hopping along the gutter
(an algae-encrusted pond
is just over the bank)
i think of you burning forests
in Kentucky, telling your baby
the names of all the songbirds,
pointing out the indigenous plants
(plucking the non-native species)
he doesn’t seem to fit in here,
pecking his way along with his
tall, built-for-fishing legs and the
beak made for water. i don’t
run him over, but i wonder
i wonder what you would
say of his presence in this arid
climate, at the same time priding
myself that i remember his species.
native? non-native? i couldn’t say.
but i think he will find his way.
Shiny New Conscience
at his stall he holds
eggs picked from the coop this morning
(various sizes and colors)
piles of phallic squashes
in shades of yellow and green,
peppers as shiny as red wagons,
new potatoes ripe and ready,
green onions that might wilt
by midday (we’d better eat them),
tomatoes ready for today’s sauce,
tomatoes ready for next week’s canning,
glistening green chiles to spice up our quiche,
the makings of a meal
that will bring us all seven together
for $17, a downhill ride home,
and a shiny new conscience.
Home at Last
for a thousand miles
we see the reach of
the Mighty Mississippi,
the river we bought
for pennies on the dollar,
the river of dreams
(sometimes nightmares),
the river that feeds us all
and doesn’t feed us.
after cornfield gives way
to soybean field and
amber waves of wheat,
all i can think about are the bison
who ate and fertilized
this prairie, feeding
ten thousand generations
and yet
we destroy it
with unnecessary crops
feeding cattle that could
(and would) do the same as the bison.
as night gives in to day
we cross the border
and see cows in pasture
(home at last)
a truck with a Kentucky plate
(home at last)
and hope that one day
we will release
the native grasses
and allow the prairie
to be home at last.
Varying Shades
somehow
despite their travels on
long-sunken ships
they have nestled in amongst
those that are native
in varying shades
of the colors of God
(who you hope to meet one day),
they intertwine
their lacework leaves,
dot the sky with flowers
as bright as our imaginations,
and root out homes in
fantastical forests.
though you think that only
ugliness
breeds each time they reproduce,
for the rest of us
all we see is the beauty
that still exists in this world.
Clucking Their Way Out
they may appear to be innocent:
barns white as new fallen snow,
idyllic as Mother Nature on
this absent-of-traffic meandering road.
in the early morning light, you
won’t hear the muffled sounds of death
clucking their way out of the
forever-closed doors and windows.
yet for half a mile or more, a circle
of stench radiates into the dewy dawn,
asking only that you take this memory
with you to the chicken aisle of the market.
One Day
Some people call me a hippie
not realizing
they’re being complimentary
because I’d rather be a hippie
who loves the earth
than a “conservative”
who does the opposite of conserving
the water that our children
will one day thirst for,
the ecosystems
that will one day
destroy the earth in their absence,
the (now demolished for mining) mountaintops
that one day inspired our ancestors.
Yes, I think a “dirty hippie”
whose feet carry the dust
of garden soil,
whose heart yearns for freedom
(our planet’s freedom)
whose soul aches to conserve
whatever it is we have left,
will one day be an admirable term.
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