When I Grow Up I Want a Window View
When I grow up I want a window view
to be the defining feature of my room.
From there I’ll watch the goldenrod as-it blooms
and inhale– just after pulling a chair up to
the frame; the flower’s fragrant earthy song
is whispered on a wind found only in August,
in fact, the chair shall live to face it always
to view God's kingdom from my hard-backed throne.
This world to often forces us to bow
to shove our heads in darkness underground
and make up reasons as to why it’s sound
and logical. While some will count the worms,
when I grow up I want to meet each morning
by watching skies and flowers in their turning.
The Only Good Bomb
For Pope Francis and Gaza
The spring is a single and soft explosion
that you will hear before you see:
the cardinals and robins will stir commotion
while dun is grass and drear is tree.
It leaves you awaiting the detonation
of greenly spirits’ virile drones,
the smoke’f which you’ll see just before th’ccasion:
foreboding dust in puddle floats.
Then:
Wake on a morning and see destruction
that’s spreading everywhere in green,
completely upending an expectation
of death and life and what has been.
And kids will be screaming such loud devotion,
in laughs all loud together singing.
Love blasts every May, till end days: I’m knowing
the fall out from the blue bell ringing.
For Tommy Seidel
In Marrakesh a bowl of snail soup brought
me back to how we shucked the oyster shells
at his house with weeds; with rot your gut
from liquor cabinet leftovers. We’d find
guitars, new drum machines to make these sounds
that made no sense. But one short kid sung songs
from bells within his chest; he’d beat them– pound
and pull on us– while I’s still sucking them down.
