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We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.


years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.
We lived in a house that had outdoor skylights.  Insects would be lured by the light and die trying to fly through the glass that imprisoned them.
I hated those skylights...

Hey lovely poets!  Thank you so much for being a supportive, amazing group of people.  I'm truly honored that you take the time to read my poems.  The Daily is just icing on an already sweet cake.
: )
 Apr 2016 Joe Cottonwood
martin
He was cruel
was old man Venn

He'd tie two cats' tails together tight
Hang them on the washing line
Stand there laughing
Watch them fight

Different folk, different times
different days back then
But he was cruel
Was old man Venn
glowing red embers
fanned by excited breaths
enliven an animated face
as a cackle from a hen in a basket
punctuates life in the vivid story-teller's world
narrated through song, chorus and imagination
she says every life lived is heroic
 Apr 2016 Joe Cottonwood
PJ Poesy
Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with ***-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire
In my early twenties, I worked in reforestation. Though weathering most inclement days, as saplings must be planted in the wet season, it was a most fulfilling time in my life. I planted whole forests all over Northern California. The men and women I worked with were so deeply dedicated, and all pulled together to make camping out in that brutal weather tolerable. Some of my best memories are there in those young forests. I often wonder how those thousands of trees I planted, fair today.
I drove over every road I know
I climbed so very many hills
Looking high and low

I crossed all the bridges
I combed every coast
I still get chills when I miss her most

Everything, everywhere is just thin air
And there's no wind to spare
She's not there

For 40 years the rains came
And the floods rage on
Heart's all adrift
Without helmsmanship
Or hope of getting home

I know where I belong...

In her *****
Within the fold
Behind her eyes
Outside the cold

But everything , everywhere is just thin air
And there's no wind to spare
She's not there

©Jason Cole
https://soundcloud.com/vaporsaint/shes-not-there
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