Deep Reflections

2020’s Bubonic Plague 

Lotion hugged by pink flowers  

Buzzed on the square screen. 

A bird flew into our window. 

The rock thump left the bird stunned 

Twitching on our porch step- 

A traveling criminal, 

With unceasing hunger 

Slithered onto the screen 

There was no sun. 

The sun was alive through time 

On my black screen. 

But not in our living room- 

Not outside. 

Grass could scream it was on fire through  

The sun’s blankets 

Yet, the room was a tunnel under 

The Arctic Ocean 

The ceiling and floor would not stop  

Getting tangled  

With the other. 

Keys that create symphonies 

Waiting in the now  

empty room 

Were pressed  

Too soon. 

The house was  

still  

not  

Steady.  

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Spray Painted on the Walls 

The poem ends here and there 

The poem starts here and there 

The line breaks are placed, and 

Lines are stopped, and carried on 

Comparisons are drawn  

Metaphorically, symbolically, and 

A simile finds its way into the canvas. 

Line for line, the mirrors are rubbed clean 

Like the vision doctor I try to be. 

Hopefully, everyone will properly see 

What I express and believe. 

But is the final line wrapping up 

The rest of the poem into a bundle? 

Or are the strings loose, thus 

The bundle falls apart, while 

The readers look up, down, and around 

Then back at me, brows furrowed 

Not knowing what to say, about 

What I attempted to mold out  

Of clay. 

Am I standing alone, with the poem? 

The only one who nods at the end 

In Understanding? 

Why should another poem 

Be sewn with the threads in 

My head? 

How-Can I pick up waiting 

Individuals, family members, friends, animals, and 

Everything else in between 

Those holding matches, waiting to make a 

Lasting change in our society 

Just across a block or two, by museums, parks, and zoos and- 

Toss them into a volcano? 

I don’t think so. 

With every start and end 

With every line break that- 

Emphasizes.  

With every line that is carried on, so is 

The comparison I am drawing, right now 

Metaphorically, symbolically, and yes 

Similes are built into my poems- 

Sometimes the few similes, metaphors, and symbols are- 

The  

Poems. 

With every dot and dash,  

With every message stroked on paper 

Straight from my subconscious 

With the mirrors I rub clean 

So hopefully the readers and I  

Both see 

Like the vision doctor, I try to be 

The Messages, that I sprinkle on 

The paper 

Are not beyond us. 

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Red Sky at Morning  

I remember the footprint-covered paths  

I would meditate, until the warmth left the sky. 

The butterflies swirled in the breeze 

While the flying squirrels were gymnasts at ease. 

I would listen to life take time off 

For as long as a breath, not 

Long enough to invite death. 

Maroon flames sparked up ahead 

I remember the footprint-covered paths 

I would meditate, until the warmth left the sky. 

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Decades of Heritage in a Cardinals Crown 

My grandfather was alive in the words that spilled- 

From my mother’s beating memory. 

A single ring is passed from her evergreen hands, 

To my own, sapling oak branches. 

When my grandfather made footprints 

On the world’s head, 

A single ring was sought, 

That would unite him and my grandmother 

Two individuals, 

Who would raise my mother in a time 

That is now asleep. 

When I turn the light on, 

In the furnace of her mind 

Wondering about who he was, and what he had believed 

His memory walks into the room, pulls out a chair, and sits down. 

Though the ring is small, it has the rings, that are as old 

As a sixty-one-year-old tree. 

Now that I have the ring by my roots, I will 

Guard the ring, with shade- 

The tradition will not end 

Like the doves of ending storms- 

There are more to come. 

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Suppose   

The planet grew arms and  

Gathered all of the stretches of lands 

Then upon sorting everything 

The planet would lift all that is from the Earth 

Into the puffy clouds as tall as a forever standing  

Redwood. 

Strong, and unchanged 

Through all of the seasons 

Ice, Snow, Rain, and Drought. 

Not a single ground, kissed by the rain and 

The sun, or the sun’s cousin 

Would ever be-  

Forgotten or cut  

Down. 

What did I just say? 

I said: what if everyone in the world 

Would be seen and treated as equals? 

Not a single person would be treated unfairly 

There would not be any crimes, injustices, wars 

All of these shock collars 

Strapped to  

Our throats 

Piercing us in 

Static light 

Would be ripped off and 

Stomped. 

None of the parasites called  

The tragic tribulations of life’s brow 

Would ever- 

Exist 

Ever again 

Everywhere. 

Not just under the eagle’s wings, 

But wherever the oxygen, sun, and moon- 

Endlessly roam with each  

Passing day.