Two more poems . . .

(Articles are also on the way)

Interrupt

 

 

Someone

please

   take President DJT

to the river

to Seymour River,

Mill River

or — even to the Potomac

anywhere where

the salmonberry

  bursts

from flower

dyed dark pink

 something the forest has

never seen anywhere before.

Then, over the months, come back, to watch the petals

fall.

Something in the middle stays!

Plumps

to yellow-orange-pink, well, salmon —

having pulled from the riverbank

all the fire from the fish

who swam up

and died there.

Someone — anyone —

                  take him to

where he can breathe

lie down on the moss

listen to nothing

but the rumours

of being okay

with the coming

then the going

of life

of love

of fame

and of money.

                  The water doesn’t mind, or care.

Bring tea

                  in a thermos

                  and tin cups

                  and to dip, hard cookies

                  that won’t crumble

                                    along the way.

 

Bring a dog —

if you have one —

big or small

   doesn’t matter.

But one who remembers

   what it’s like

   to run in the forest

   and bark at the leaves

   going on down the stream,

                  one by one.

 

Let him

   stay as long as he wants

   no one

   brought a watch

   and if the sun

   goes down

   we know the way back

   anyway.

 

 

Then take that man home

and tuck him in

while the rest of us

make jam

for the children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Murder Most Foul

 

His cry

   splits the sky

     in two.

Watch it crash

on the shore

without ceasing.

 

What is dead

   cannot be undone.

What we do is forever.

 

His wail

                  wakes every thing alive

now on alert

watching

 

him.

His wail

                  washes out

with every wave

coming back in

cold, desolate.

And he,

most undone.

 

My boy

with four-long years

in his body

with his two hands

each

with five fat fingers

 

in one heedless second

 

dropped a stone on a thumbnail crab.

 

Now he lies

flat out

on the wet sand,

a self-known murderer.

 

 

With him I have walked

one kilometre an hour

stopped at everything

every trunk and its ants

every pond and its delight

   of stone and flower

every worm on every sidewalk

that must be moved

to safety.

Even an already dead wasp

receives its proper burial.

 

What now?

 

A path different forward?

                  Dead cats?

                  Steel bullets?

                  Missiles, secret drones?

 

Watch.

 

My son, his father

– a slug-saver himself-

lies out on the sand

with his boy.

Together they cry

and thus save the day

and humankind.

 

(Which far off, out of sight is still killing.)

 

But here,

   on this beach,

   the waves wash

   right.