Canadian wildfires

Smoke from Canadian wildfires

tints the sunset and my eyes red.

My longs rebel and my heart

aches for the displaced,

the people and animals who've 

lost their homes and habitats.

I think about our U.S. president

and what it takes to make us

want to leave here, possibly move

there, among the raging fires

and winter ice, but without

a despot for a ruler.

Emptying Shelves

 

Unused domestic items, relegated to the garage 

clutter shelves, collecting dust 

and spider webs, purpose misplaced.

Sticky wok. Pinwheel remains. A feral 

Barbie with ratty hair. Bits of sidewalk 

chalk, now just powdery remnants of our 

lives as foster parents.

Old flowerpots and tattered cloth grocery bags. 

Awards from a growing career. 

Metal footlocker sheltering a Korean War era 

Marine uniform and medals.

Bits and pieces of our lives. Our family  

history. Us.

Focus

 Focus is the locus

but mainly on the plain.

The plane in the sky

flies by with nary a glance

at the wide expanse below.

 

The pilot is focused on

instruments and altitude while

flight attendants are focused on

passengers with attitudes

and snacks, scarce as smiles.

 

I used to look forward to a flight

my belly tight with nerves at ascent

the pleasant drowsiness of the climbs.

But now, the chimes of seat belts on

creates a rock at my center.

 

An hour or more in the air and

careless folks cough into no mask;

the task of preventing illness

a willingness no one shares.

I feel a sniffle coming on.

 

The focus of the locus

is mainly on the plain

and that’s where I wish to be.

Transformation

I use the plastic edged razor

meant to slice Christmas wrap

and envelope paper

to cut your beautiful hair.

 

No quick snip of the barber shears

but an urgent hack and hew

leaving you with a ragged fray

about your face.

 

Head liberated and light

eyes clear and bright under the rising sun

you stand transformed and ready

to do battle in a new world.

dawn

dawn stretches across the horizon

languid, banishing the dark cloud bank

confused by the infusion of light

forgotten again

 

the past rattles my windows

and rain whispers in morse code

begging me to remember

 

my subconscious reluctantly exhumes

memories long buried

 

with dawn’s weak light,

decaying and dirt covered,

they are forgotten again

 

Fight for Grateful

I am grateful that I have

my work, funded by federal grants

for now.

I am grateful that my uncle

has Medicaid, funded by the federal government through the state

for now.

I am grateful that elders

get meals on wheels

for now.

Tomorrow I will fight for

these things that make me grateful