First Day of Summer

A magic flute, a silver note,
a robin on the wing;
everything is celebrating
summer     and I
am one with them.

My eyes see only art,
the weed, the vine, the bloom,
the supple Maple tree,
Each is a maestro
in its proclivity to dance, or sing,
or merely be.

Though I,
wan mortal that I am,
stand paler
by their beauty, Today
I am at once the wing-ed bird
and the graceful tree.

How I'll Cure the World

I will write the demons,
the silent screams and tears,
the groundless, and not so groundless, fears
accumulated like mismatched luggage.

No fancy suit bag here,
just battered baggage
scarred and damaged,

the ugly rumblings of griffins
and goblins, the predators
with twirled mustaches,
vile breathed and detached.

I will write the shadows
that smother the sun,
the smog and the pollution,
the pestilence of intimidation,
the bias of discrimination,

I will write the smack, the crack,
the booze, the pills, the pain,
the insane refrain that does not dwindle.

I will write it all
then crunch it up
into a vulgar ball
and burn it.