Eating hate stew
brings out the worst in you,
equal if you’ve made
or dined on it. No longer free,
you’ll see everywhere enemies.
The door held open,
inside the table set
with chair pulled out,
ready for you to sit.
You choose. Just know
eating love stew
brings out the best in you.
You’ll see the best in me.
Every bite will nourish everyone
and we’ll share a morsel of heaven.
Reading S.P.
I am a flicker to her candle
crumb to her cake
letter to her novel
pebble to her lake
I am a paw print to her lion
flake to her snow
ray to her noonday sun
tent to her chateaux
She has claws to my filed flat nails
She’s a cheetah in every line
passing distance, living lightening
I am running out time
Sorry Morning
This sallow, sorry morning
I water the garden before the sun is high,
and count many dawning yellow-white blossoms
on just one tomato vine.
Every day I am wondering,
how far is love to reach?
- and now I heard of bombing -
There’s water on my hands and feet.
There’s water on my hands and feet
and in the air around me.
How far can love reach
on this sallow, sorry morning?
Jim, our hobby farm, our hobby farm, our hobby farm
what happened to our safe from harm hobby farm,
our hobby farm?
Our cows and chickens, their cheese and eggs,
their cheese and eggs, their cheese and eggs
free on the road, free on the road, we saw them free,
free on the road?
What happened to our rescues running,
our gardens blooming, our warn paths growing?
I could see your house from my house,
your house from my house, your house from my house
and rocking chairs, our rocking chairs, our rocking chairs.
John’s call one night was an unset alarm,
to say there would be no hobby farm,
no hobby farm, no hobby farm, no safe from harm,
no jokes to disarm, no upside down charm,
of our hobby farm.
Jim, my dear brother,
I still see it.
This chair, where the day’s care
like fall leaves or raindrops,
sets with a sign, where she sees
her plants and paintings, watercolor
windows, all light
as she closes her eyes.
