Forest Spirit

Many selves,
a raging fire, a sparkling chasm.
viper slithers to its apogee – the sun –
almost succeeds, almost destroys –
I am justified in brevity, breathing
as I, come face to face,
and so it is – angry souls in each other’s bodies –
while August burns treacherously
in the dry grasses.

Boy leaves tracks. Life trudges.
Brooding, endorsing the searing sun,
Can’t close the seed captured here,
die brother…live sister….
no distress or bitterness or revenge –
merely randomness that
divides itself unmercifully

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Smooth Still

The orange ranunculus
dropped its petals

like a soft feather war—
a dead fire bird,

a phoenix on the ground,
smooth still like the milk

puddles, lining the sink.
They boiled a thing

and it remained,
like homesickness

like depression, like ants
coming in from the rain.

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agenda

1) keep listing main bankrollers destroying Nature: boycott

2) advocate “ignorance-based world view” a la Wes Jackson and Wendell Berry: elaborate
& celebrate

3) UCS clubs @ colleges and universities designing lively biology curricula pre-K thru PhD:
NO to gene splicing

4) support J. Hagelin proposals: no more cyclotrons

5) meditate on Higgs boson: don’t agitate it

6) separate good science from bad tech

7) unite good joyous science with diverse pagan religions

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Left of Gandhi

Sittin’ to the left of Gandhi
Peaceful intentions and all

Honolulu Zoo behind me
Girls playing volleyball
Beautiful ocean

Yet, the world burns in more ways than one

My wife in the water, with beautiful fish

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The Red Gate

Can you see us through the gate? the Tutelo ask.

I sprayed it apple red last winter, aerosol in my lungs.
Must be more careful in the time of masks.
But the red. The red! You can see it a quarter mile away, walking up the lane.
Crooked door opening to a wide mossy bed of poplar and walnut.
Shadows bend into each other. Locust limbs rest on the lazy fence.
An old wooden coop, emptied years back by the fox, sits where the home place was.

One hundred years and one thousand acres: apple orchard.
The caretaker’s house, rows of seven sisters’ roses wild and pink still push out
At the spring house. Into the north pasture.
A cemetery of pushed grey stones at the corner.

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Without, Within

Tiny round-faced vaquita porpoises,
dark-eyed mountain gorillas,
intricately striped Sumatran tigers,
so many species disappearing
under greed’s heavy boots
although the loss seems abstract
as we stop at Costco for groceries,
fill up the car before heading home.

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The Furies

Blast! over the last ridge before pasture. The great white sycamore shatters the oriole’s net-nest. An autumn olive catches the fledgling, embraces its beating heart. Singed by relentless summer, hills west waver/duck at the gale.

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Noting the Excessives

Noting the Excessives We are the feeble, living on an oily, zit faced, nicotine stained bowling ball, the one spinning and hurling in the gut of a steel cobalt blue sky. We are the jolly simpletons stuck babysitting ourselves with the keys to the asylum tucked neatly beneath our slick and lying tongues. We are […]

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