If on some cold, dreary day a virus takes my breath away, please burn me up and say a prayer then toss my ashes in the air.
My final wish I may regret and I’ll be damned, or so you’ll fret, but when to dust I do return don’t let it be just to an urn. Do this for me, darlin’ please, just send me off into the breeze so I can float off through the sky and come to rest when time goes by. I want to fall to Earth again upon a madman’s head so when he rants and raves above the din he chokes on me as he breathes in.
I used to think that I wasn't gregarious
but now that everything seems so precarious and sometimes even just downright nefarious, and everyday pleasures grow mostly vicarious, I see my old thinking as almost hilarious.
Stay well, my friends, and keep your distance.
Looking for some great reads for your book club? Get tons of recommendations Monday, August 19, at Between the Covers with
Boulder County Indie Authors (including yours truly) will be there, presenting TEN (10!) of our titles. See you there!
Raise your hand if you believe a tree that falls in the forest makes noise even if no one hears it.
Now, raise your hand if you believe that writing a poem is worth the effort even if no one reads it.
Whose crimes these are I think I know.
Their place is in the fire below; They will not see you shed a tear Nor care a whit, death fast or slow.
The dying child is numb with fear
And choking as the end comes near From breathing toxic fumes so thick, From burning what we love so dear.
She gives the fog a wistful look
Remembering a pretty brook That ran behind her house one day Before the heat took it away.
The Earth was lovely, green with life,
But we cared so for things and strife, And conquered her with greed so rife, And conquered her with greed so rife.
Inspired by the poetry of Robert Frost.
Words hover out of reach
on a hot summer day,
in shimmer and haze.
The mind drifts
from passing thought
to passing thought
to yet another.
Eyes see fear
in clouded eyes
and look away,
witnessing their own future
as a fading memory.
The tiny flame
from a candle in a glass jar
that a young girl holds up high
for the world to see
is stronger than the shouts
and middle fingers
of cowards who roar by
on the street in the night
on their way to hell.