How much will it truly take
Before we realize
That what was written
All those years ago
Is true.

The fires and floods
And hurricanes
Are the flashing lights
Of warning.

The shaking down of cities
Is Gaia’s anger manifest.
The rumors have been
Proven true and
The guns of war are blazing.

What more is necessary
To stop us in our tracks
And make us clearly see
The very small amount of sand
Remaining in our hourglass
ljm

I believe in poetry tho most do no not.

that it is a special social way of
communicating that kidnaps the heart,
seduces the soul, best when whispered,
tho the cadence is the key, lesser is the
volume

we do not teach our children well enough,
the hows of it, for if we did, the whys would
surely follow; no one can be a bully, or give
in to overwhelming sadness entire, if a line
of the spoken can yet bring forth a tear to
the most hardened of hearts

the high heat of the first sip of the day
asks for encapsulation, rememberance,
insignificant as it may be, it dislodges
the stale of sleep, stimulates the muscle
fibers of the tongue. snaps open our now
wide eyed eyelids, and lets us appreciate
a poem of our existence by its poking us
from homeostasis to, by the slightest touch,
the slow running of the tongue upon the
lower lip. the eyes filled to the brimming
by your beloved deep dreaming … and so,
we break our day into sequences of fragments,
though sometimes fractured and divisible,
if not even divisive, yet each a stand alone
momentary affirmation that though our
natural state is still homeostasis, it is the
highs and lows of our minuta of minucia,
that mark our minute minutes of never
ending poetical composition…

Gawking at the light
In search of bounty in streams
That hold no water