Parched Green

The drought goes on,
And all the small
And large things left
Out on their own—

Not you, not pets—
Have got to find
Some wet to live,
And some won’t live

That still live yet.
You’ve got your own
Droughts—low cash flow,
Lost work, bad debts—

You’ll drown in droughts
To keep lawns wet
And gulp down doubts.
Well, this well’s left.

Black Notch in Snow

No one lights the lamps up here.
No one comes with a long hook
And a blue flame like a soul.

There are no lamps. Wires don’t reach.
Gas did not have an age here.
No one found gold here. Or tried.

There were no mines here, no pits,
No hey-day, no street shoot-outs.
At most, there was sun at noon,

And so no one built a town.
There was no stream with the strength
To drive a mill, no good soil,

No crops or fruit trees to bring
The rails this out of the way.
There are no farms and no roads,

No one herds their cows up here.
Poor grass and the cliffs are sheer,
So who would live in Black Notch?

You see that there’s one stone home,
And there’s one soul in that home,
Blue but here, light on the stones.

Still, it’s not real life lives here,
Just what you make of this poem,
Words whose blue light is our own.

End All

You can’t not fear,
No more than you
Can not breathe, pulse,
Eat, waste. You’re flesh.

If you can read,
Or you can hear,
Or you can see
This, you’re a beast,

And beasts are born
To know and need
Fear—if you woke
From a bad dream

Hissed in your ear,
That’s not your be
All and end all.
All done’s no fear.