Saturday, July 23, 2011

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

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. 

Sunday, July 17, 2011

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


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

She leaned in close.

It is because,
she whispered,
always watching.

Saturday, July 2, 2011


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

so only you
can hear;
and the candle
go out.
Poems © Gemma W. Wilson