At the Precipice

 We are at the precipice,

in a world spinning

out of control. We're on the brink.

Extreme events, calamities keep

coming at us, faster than

we can blink, think, 

rise or sink.

On the rocky ledge, our heads swim,

looking down. When we fall, will there be

a river, in which to either

swim or drown?

Where's the bottom, when the bottom

has fallen away?

Is there enough hope left,

still, in which to pray? If so,

what shall we say? We're told

we're in a situation of grave peril.

Yet those in control have their own agenda

for their role. What's scary is, in their eyes

I see no soul.

Perhaps after the sheer drop,

there will be a landing on a kinder shore.

 It's the best that I can hope for

any more.

For Desperate Poets, where the topic is Precipice.

Field of Sorrow

 

They are all out there,

our furry loves - the foal, 

gone way too soon, buried

with the ball he loved so much,

his mother, Beau, the grand old mare,

who once stood between two fighting horses,

bared her teeth and bellowed

her "Enough!" She was undisputed

queen of the paddock during

her reign. Other loves

followed - beloved dogs and cats,

Jasmine, buried with her

big stuffed moose, beside her

brother Lukey (they came

and left this earth together)

and more loved horses,

so now we look across

a field of sorrow, which also

is a field of love and pain,

and the hope that one day

we will see our furry loves 

again.

On The Day the Towers Fell

 

On the day the towers fell,

North America lost its innocence

and its feeling of invincibility.

We watched them fall, on repeat,

all day, humans covered in concrete dust

stumbling with stricken, hollow eyes

across our tv screens.

Towards evening,

they began to appear,

Angels dressed in white,

wings outspread,

gently smiling

peace and hope and love

to the crowd,

who bowed their heads

and cried

at being reminded

that, even in the darkest hour,

beauty can be found.

For Carrie at The Muse, with thanks,

In the Land of Desperate Poets

 

In the land of desperate poets,

how desperate must one be?

So many topics to choose from,

but who's counting?

I typed the word "desperate"

into Stardreaming's search bar, and

poem after angst-riddled poem popped up.

Wild Woman has been writing

desperate poems for years.

Out in the world, extreme happenings

of every kind are being recorded

by  humans not awakened to

the urgency of a planet in distress.

People are losing their minds

and their human rights.

Animals are dying.

Animals are dying. Is that desperate

Enough?

Smiles. For the Desperate Poets open link. I think I have been waiting for a site like this.

One Might Say

 

One might say life served her

sunny side up, bright smile

as perennial and perky 

as spring blooms.

"Go to your room and don't come out

till you have a smile on your face,"

and the sad child kept that obsequious smile

through heartbreak, abuse, the con man

who burned down her store, that was also

her home. She kept bobbing up from disaster

like an apple in a Halloween tub. How did she do it,

one might well ask. She'll tell you the blue sky

kept her Looking Up. She'll say nature's beauty

got her through, that she walked in wonder

even through the littered wasteland 

of broken dreams.

And what of her heart? She'll tell you there was once

a big black dog, who showed her how love

was always meant to be.

For Brendan at Desperate Poets

Through Grateful Eyes

 

Let me look into your mind,

the doctor said, peering
through my ear into my head.
Interesting - poke poke poke -

it's full of pockets. That's no joke.
One full of

childhood woes, another

packed with dreams. You have lived

many busy lives, it seems.

There is a black hole in the centre,

where I see you've tossed

all the stuff you're glad
is long-ago and lost.

That is wise.

Life is more beautiful

when you look through

grateful eyes.

LOL. This is what popped into my head - out of whatever pocket - when I looked at the photo.
For The Muse. And happy birthday to Shay.

Things I Could Do This Morning

 

I could hose the thick dust off the car,

or sweep the fallen blossoms from the path.

I could walk into town and purchase 

the things on my list. Or drive to the beach

and jockey with the thousand tourists

for parking and space.

I could vacuum under the bed

and polish the bathroom. Or dust,

as, with windows flung wide,

the dust is everywhere.

Instead, I will sit in the sun,

stunned by torpor, like a

pollen-drunk bee, and watch

the last of the blossoms fall down

from these two old
and beautiful
trees.