Meadows

 

The whole thing is broken. It's like an egg. I'm not

saying this to get you to say something else in

the sunny opposite direction of the tattooed scar upon my painted

backyard scene. I don't really care. It's only on me. Not on you.

I'm glad as much as I can be for the

 

lucky ones who will remain together in one singular piece

all their abnormal lives through. I don't know how they do

it. But now you think that I should simply celebrate

the gentle understanding that has finally come tenderly back to

my own front door, while the sad and lonely truth of what's going

 

off outside is still shattering into plenty of ancient disintegrating

pieces all around the tragic gardens we live in. Is that enough news for

you to digest? When it rains it's true, some can see through

a whole kaleidoscope of jumping agonies the porous clouds scattering

birds across our thumping head spaces. I don't need you pulling

 

them screaming out of my burning skin just to prove to

me that it can be done. I've got to help them

if I can.  I've written plenty of paintings on the

subject.  The holy host of miracle workers has already been

here well before you took a cold stab at it. Thinning

 

angels gave us an emergency number to call, but it

was another fake waterfall behind a smiling curtain. No one 

answered. It was an empty room. I've been given a 

large number of empty rooms by a large number of 

well-meaning angels. It must be harder than it looks to be celestial. Nothing's 

easy, but the poor meadows. Surely we can do better. This

isn't all on one person's dreaming sad shoulders. Poets're supposed 

to add poetry to the fight, but men and women 

must add the weight of their own hopes and courage 

to the firmaments of war and peace, even as it catches on fire and drowns us all.    

Bonus poem:

A Fine Life(First Draft)

It's not really too bad. The person

I am was me. We laughed inside

their sacred places at all the monies

well spent. We walked in the gardens

without any shoes on. Not one single

flower seemed to mind. And now it's

a forgotten mess or so I imagine.

I'd rather you think about me

holding hands with you  as we passed

through a blue sky next to some

golden trees. We stood among sunbeams and

closed our eyes and dared to dream.

That's enough to always remember. We sang

musics out of our haunted hearts. We

dressed like we were celebrating all beings

in heaven and earth. It took a

little while, that's all, to make it

to the light. It's a fine life.

You're never a regret. If anything

you're the lucky answer to the prayers

I found myself mouthing through my paper

bag. I wasn't always thinking, but looking

for the starlight in your eyes. I

don't want you to worry. I took

as many steps as I could toward

my own happiness with you. This is

just my stop. I'll never forget this

life of a poet, the words will

see to it. That's the point. I

wasn't joking. The sun also rises. I

get it. But it was our time.

We took it and it took us

away. We wanted it to. That's what

we came for. I can't pretend.  We

followed a path we had taken to

its end. How many can say that?

My heart is free. Don't let yours

come undone. You'll be all right; I'll

bet there's always a star to guide

you. I'm glad because you were always

so bright nearby. I don't know what

any of that means besides goodbye love.