the pink flower, or God knows

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my ears get fooled by neighbors
and all the wrong that i hear
and my feet get sore from foxtails
those insidious small devils

and don’t you ever wonder
i mean, doesn’t it ever get to you
how He is still everywhere
and everything no matter what?

and i almost forgot without
this morning when i left
in a huff that i snapped
one picture of a pink mildness

i looked at it once, and now twice
and on the third time viewing
i finally saw its burnt edges

yet i think it cannot detract
from the multiplication of
sympathies He’s given me
in this very continuous moment

as i look and re-look at earth
in this very important flower
don’t you see a prayer?

don’t you see an instruction
to quiet self, to get out,
without the weight of ego
to be only soft and burning, —
an open-fisted body

::

for Real Toads &after Mary Oliver’s
When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention

Forecast Says Rain or Moonlight

Feet find an exile path. Hands pluck a life-sized heart of stone from its downy green nest –before last months sheep came– before all this stubble &hay for backyards.

Feet find an exile path. Eyes plead for cloud cover, a strewn sympathy for this dry creek bed, but the sky’s full of itself &chokes on a perpetual wash of its own perfect cup.

Feet find an exile path. Tongues pray for a touch, or maybe a rain to baptize dogs of flesh &fill empty vessels which are vapors (or even less than that) every morning beneath this cloudless composure of poised light.

My Earth for the Daily Post

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Photo

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If I were Alexander,
German astronaut,
I would say I’m from
Australia, because
up here it’s crystal
clear that we are
all one humanity.

But we are monsters
throwing fireballs,
burning rockets.

And here’s my best
blue marble–
going down the drain.

Entangled Branches

entangled branches
sun ascends through lifeless limbs
beautiful chaos                     -Anmol (HA)

dizzy from mother earth’s spin
i settle into your arms          -angie inspired

All Is Not Lost

I’ve nearly forgotton about our late July trips to the dump, but I have muscle memory of it. lil girl

In the back of dad’s ford truck, I sat on the wheel hub, hemmed in by splintered two by fours with holes in them from the nails I pounded out, some powdery drywall puzzle pieces I helped tear apart, and the broom mom gave me to sweep it all out with when we were done.

“Get it out there, girl!” Dad hollered at me with his thumbs tucked under his overall straps just below the silver buckles. He’d feed me more wood so I could far-fling it, shot-put it, side-wind it, or swing toss our demolition into the hole we called, ‘stinking oblivion.’

I heaved everything we had into a mingled mixed-up mountain of tree branches, cut grass and splintered lumber, being careful not to put a foot too close to the edge. Always, after we finished, dad would wipe his brow with a blue bandana  folded four times inside his left pocket, and open the red ice chest to retrieve chilled Visine drops for his tired eyes, along with one fresh soda a piece for him and me.

We’d sit on the tailgate, taking swigs of orange pop.  I’d swing my legs out over the great chasm, all satisfied-like.

come~ sit at the edge

of a broken earth and see

that all is not lost