This Time

This summer 

in this city

brings me back to troubled times

announced in hushed tones 

on black 

and white 

tv; it formed the soundtrack of our lives. 

This time it's so hot 

that money melts 

quicker than we can make it;

quicker than the company 

can decide 

to put enough aside

to throw our way

like the the biblical rich man

to the dogs.

This time, the violence is horrifically new

and yet, pit-of-the-stomach familiar. 

All in HD

24 hours a day

for our eternal
entertainment. 

This time, we are walled away, 

each alone in our 

climate-controlled cubicle 

complete with computer 

that goes everywhere we go

to distract us

from reality. 

It is happening again,

but this time, 

I don't see

a revolution. 

The Gardeners

The gardeners are out,
the gardens transformed
into neat little plants
unhindered by neighbors
sitting alone
in deep rich soil
they mirror their owners
while I
cultivate my weeds
growing randomly
this way and that
like my thoughts
and my words
they are not rich
but they are
prolific.

Oz

On the empty shelf lies no
witch's crystal.

The tiny house
lands firmly in the present
with a decisive thud.

The future in its
fullness
has
faded.

She explained her reluctance
to divorce him
over a glass
of  chilled wine
the color of her aging
blood.

She leaned in close.

It is because,
she whispered,
someone
is
always watching.

Whisperer

I want to
lean close
and whisper
softly in your ear
to calm your
restless soul.

Softly,
so only you
can hear;
and the candle
doesn't
go out.