The Last Dance of the Trees

They only give 

us a moment 

with our churches

and our wars

holding their 

arms wide 

catching 

the sun

in each branch

a map of time

just long 

enough 

to shower us

with color

before they 

slowly retreat 

into the darker

halls of paradise.

.

Red Music

The notes come tumbling out of
the battered accordion of fall.
A dark red music
with the bodies of leaves
littering the streets.

My hands shake
thinking of my mother
as I change 
the hurricane’s diaper.

A catalogue arrives
selling the dream
of a well-manicured life.
Organized
clean
with the patina 
of nature
displayed
in clever
and artful ways.
There are no humans 
in the photos.

Ants, bats, raccoons, spiders
cats, very bold squirrels
and fleas sneaking in
on the Trojan horse
of our geriatric poodle
have been guests in our home.

The sun continues
its pilgrimage
through the yard
only a darker yellow now
and even some orange.
I cannot remember a single day
when I have not stopped 
to read the book of time
on the light flying out
from its oceans of fire.

A barely perceived
inevitability creeps
into the news.
Didn’t I hear 
these stories 
several decades ago?

The hurricane arches
and kicks
and shits
and pounds
and eats
and eats
and eats
and screams
and giggles
and farts
and cries
and destroys 
and eats
everything in her path.
The nature 
of the universe

Love is such a sweet destruction.

She watches everything
with eyes as deep as the ocean.
She is voracious 
and tyrannical 
in her need to explore.
She is ten times smarter
than previous generations.

I assume it will be
ten times harder to live
but already
her heart 
is so full.

My father sends photos
from our early years.
He works each day
sorting through them.
They have a square
white border 
with tiny dates 
like 7- 65
and a fog
is slowly blooming
across their 
shiny surfaces.
There is always 
an underlying
narrative to the ones
that he sends.
A man of few words
his actions
are poems of love.

He laughs with joy
on the phone 
when I describe
the hurricane’s escapades.

The four small rooms
of our house are 
torn asunder
each day.
The scattered debris 
of exhaustion 
love and chaos.
The violent 
energy of our days 
as we fall 
through the light. 

Hang on friend
as we fall
ever deeper
through the beautiful 
destruction.

.

Black Thatch

There is a black thatch of clouds

across the dome of the world this morning

except along the eastern edge

where a red snake

stretches and burns.

Walking through the dark

giant winds from the north

run across the prairie

and push me in the back.

Everyone is racing

in their metal cars 

as if they were cars

on a long gone

roller coaster called

The Roller Coaster

which is leaning and rusting

in the theme park of time.

Crosses with dirty plastic flowers

and faded photos in warped frames

and stuffed animals with dirt-matted fur

and deflated foil balloons

are all sinking along the roadside

as a thousand engines

fly past with their

smoky violent music.

Nobody knows who died.

Time is ending

but it’s taking its time.

The music of failure

is in the air.

Those who have made

survival a god

are hopelessly lost.

Everyone 

is running late.

Now the whole

sky is on fire!

.