Witnessing Something Soon to Come

The shroud of snow and ice

lifts just enough for more shades

of brown.  There is a fifth season:

The season of snow and mud.  Patterns thin

in delicate layers of fractured

ice show the earth’s color

underneath.  An array of future hues

is hinted in dirty white.  Birds sing the gray

away while rays from the sky cause the filthy drip

down sewage drains.  All will flush clean.  Fresh life

exhales.  Another revolution of the planet

promises not all is lost in the whiteouts plaguing

past weeks.  The ground will soon begin

to rupture in a rapture of crocus.


Baby Bone

If my sons wanted to return

to their mother, there is no longer a place


for me to keep them warm, sheltered.  No

womb to shield their tiny bodies


from the callous, calculated criminal

world that I should have considered


its cruelty before bringing such beautiful

beings into being.  I grieve for my sons.  Their mother


castrated because healers are no longer

healers. Butchers. The healing arts conduct


Capitalist business for all possible profits

to please CEO’s and personal expense


accounts.  Boys, your mother was aching,

sick and poor which lead to profound


pain of being dissected, disembodied, disavowed,

decentered.  Her pocketbook kept her


marginalized.  She sought help

assuming the Hippocratic Oath


didn’t make of those who take it

hypocrites.  She was sorely mistaken, by-effect


became systematically sterilized by the privileged

order of prefixed names.  They told her


it needed done: she would have a better life

if she sacrificed her sacred womb.  Now, children,


all she does is mourn the loss of your first home.

Small Echo of Toads


Tired of wishes,

Empty of dreams. 

            ~Carl Sandburg


Sitting, smoldering in smoky shadows

her eyes ablaze of passion to go

unseen and ignored. She sits barefoot, one

leg stacked on the other like logs

in a fire, searching for a melody enchanting her

darkness to dance, but only the croak of toads

echo in the air tonight.  It remains the same

all night long, as the sun beckons the unemployed,

underpaid broken faces to rise—no longer needing

to feign sleep.  There is no sleep in

times of worry.  She sat there all night finding no reason

to get up, let alone dance.  As women pull themselves

from their beds to feed children too sleepy to welcome

the sun, she closes her eyes to imagine

what a hymn of grace would resemble.

Then she poses her body as a corpse trying to breathe

deep into her being.