It's a predictable cycle
Peaceful Nature.
The hum of the streams
layered by the whistle and the **** call.
Sunning spring green grasses
dew soaking the new season's blade.
A croak interrupts the morning,
calling us out to the field.
Only we hold our position, listening in anticipation.
Nature excites us as though the unexpected will appear momentarily,
only it's the regularity that surprises.
Our nervous system is poised for action,
until we realize the day is relaxing, breathing deeply,
sat in prayer and obedience.

It's a predictable cycle
Peaceful Nature.
The hum of the streams
layered by the whistle and the **** call.
Sunning spring green grasses
dew soaking their new season's blade.
A croak interrupts the morning,
calling us out to the field.
Only we hold our position listening in anticipation.
Nature excites us as though the unexpected will appear momentarily,
Only it's the regularity that surprises.
Our nervous system is poised for action,
until we realize the day is relaxing, breathing deeply,
Sat in prayer and obedience.

plain days, plain
grey sidewalk, *****
springtime tree buds
cold rain falling.

old lady wet hair,
brown paper bag,
fresh zucchini sliced in rounds,
climbing up the stairs.

I find myself stranded, dangling, isolated, unrepresented.
I am a woman, though I won't march this January.

I believe in equality amongst all nations, races, genders
although I have no argument for the lack thereof.

The outrage of vibrant young ethnic men and women
is not mine to share, my white skin paints me guilty.

I am poor, have been my whole life.
I am not mad about it, had I worked harder, read more, wrote more, even cared more, I might have enjoyed the spoils.

I realize there is a stratosphere where dazzling ebony dancers,
stained with dye, decorated in braids, colored like Amazonian royalty
move their minds through a dreamspace whispering the laws of tomorrow.

I do not have an access pass to this heaven.
I can not feel it,
hear it,
find it.
I see it, I  stumble upon it from time to time, only to watch it
envious.

Hey All,
Ploughshares is having open readings for publication in their journal...some of you should definitely submit!!

https://www.pshares.org/

You need to go, you have ruined this road,
There is no market for redemption here.
Christ hangs in a tree over yonder,
Pray there, he alone offers relief.

Mine is a human heart,
Aching and torn.
Seven years it takes mine
To heal and regrow.

"What do you do?"

"I create shelters for peace. Places you can go to when you have no where to go. I buy shacks in the desert."

He nodded, looked to his friend. Their social class hung on their East coast shoulders as they lifted a paid for beer up to their pampered lips.
  
I said, "If it is not something you need, it has no value to you. Much like a Bonsai or Christ."

I felt secure, knowing they couldn't grasp the feeling of being lost in a Western desert.