off we go!

off we go
in a clean car
cooler crisp with celery
sleeping bags in back
warm woolies
slinky sandals
baklavas and bikinis
we're off
we're off!

Be back August 9!

the pols

listening to the radio talking
heads battering against political scenery
like actors on a poorly constructed stage
that is democracy.
back stage bartering, mascara running down
rouged cheeks, men smoking cigars
or chewing nicorette, walking out
behind velvet curtains, the audience
cries out for him to return
to the table on the stage, hoping
for the floor to drop out from
under them.

a delay in every day

where/when will I write a poem worthy
of reading by red-headed rabbits dressed in ruffles
when the days wear away without so much as a whisper,
 a rustle of pages in the wind calling to be read aloud
the rhythm wrestling in my mind for a poem to emerge
worthy of reading, ruinous to the restless sleep
of reflective readers.

Packing for a camping trip

the Coleman stove still has grease from the last trip
as do the dented frying pans and the sponge.
gross.
the myriad slightly torn, poor quality fabric grocery bags
will not, I repeat, not be strewn across the floor of the van,
each with a motley assortment of Sport Legs, granola bars
and rotten bananas.
we have a new set of camping utensils, clean and packaged
in a nifty black case; we'll see how long that lasts.
nonetheless, its happening, this packing and we don't
even leave for four days.
now, that's progress.

Lessons from Nature

warm your face in the sun,







stand tall but quietly,
rest in deep shade,

take in the view,






admire beauty,
bend in the wind,

let the river run through you,

there is nothing so sweet as the
smell of snow.

Boehner walks out of debt talks

so the wealthy and the corporations will cheer for the almighty dollar
that bought them their very own democracy, their second homes and new cars,
a few more millions or billions, never enough after the luxuries of the day
and nothing but darkness surrounds them as they lie in their silk sheets.
so now their own personal empires that used to reside overseas can come
home, no taxes due!  hip hip hoorooh, who cares that some are blue
without a job or without a car, without a doctor, without a shoe,
the wealthy and the corporations don't give a hoot, they'll
have the butler give a boot to the man on the street corner holding
out his empty tin cup towards the darkened windows of passing cars.

This poem from someone who is not particularly a bleeding heart liberal...but what is going on in Washington is absolutely sickening. 

Writing a Poem About the Neighborhood Meeting

in the Book about Poetry we call for the unconscious married with a skill for words
but what of great danes, mimosas, street murals, neighbors long gone yet reappeared
from houses so many blocks away, talk of the need for weeders, free-for-all bike repairs
all so very conscious, the dates drifting into our unconscious as the alcohol settles in as
we gaze at upside down rabbits painted on fences and stocky women heading off to retirement
only to return to bust over-occupied apartment complexes and landowners with no licenses
I know a few of them, the ones with grass up to their waists, big bills in their back pockets
sipping wine in Vail or North Boulder, or did they move upscale again so they could drive
their new Prius downtown to fight zoning changes, I digress again with champagne bubbling
below to marry the unconscious with the conscious, a missing skill for words to describe
what happened tonight around the corner, this is what makes the world go round,
and no, it's not just words.