Poetry

It’s okay

Apparently it’s okay

to demand help five minutes before the world sleeps

and then stroll off under the stars

without even the thought of thanks.

 

It’s fine to dig up liquefied bones

and fashion them into inflatable rings

to bob along on the surface of the Earth’s sweat-sheened skin

only to cast them aside when the sun hides its head.

 

It’s fine to book safaris in a distant country

while the wildlife nearby is trampled underfoot,

hit by cars and choked by polluted air,

with reserves holding fundraisers in the wake of blind eyes

and deaf ears.

 

It’s fine,

until the wall of ignorance crumbles

at your feet.

Poetry

Bright eyes and lies

A rabbit with eyes wide and bright

with the light from the car’s full beam

scampers off just as the wheels screech.

Halt.

Daffodils rise up at the pound of its paws,

followed by crocuses, tulips, hyacinths, nerines,

budding and dying just as quick. A few

fading petals and a dusting of pollen

the only trace.

Examine.

Heavy boots race up the path the rabbit has taken,

no flowers rise. No flowers bloom. No flowers die.

And the rabbit is gone, buried beneath the snow

to stay warm, away from the sprinklers

that spread summer’s mirage.

Above ground is cold, just as it always is.

Just as winter is.