Some days are worth nothing.

Some days nothing happens.

Maybe the sun shines.

Maybe it doesn’t.

It doesn’t interest me.

When things are like that

I stay in bed.

I don’t fight it.

I don’t lecture myself

On positive thought.

What for?

As a child I didn’t fight it.

I am learning to be that again.

little doll made of rags

sitting in a corner

worn and tattered

and much loved

her braided hair is faded

from the light of ninety years

her blue eyes closed

her lips a smudge rubbed out

where is the child who owned her?

too old to keep

the days of love are over

where the river runs upstream

where the birds forsake their wings

where the crow is white

where commoners are kings

where the rainbow tilts

where the sea is tideless

where the summer comes before the spring

where the angels walk the earth

where the rain is molten gold

where death precedes a birth

where all is contradiction

where all the clocks are wrong

where history’s prediction

in imagination’s fire

everything is possible

but nothing can transpire

The computer is malfunctioning, the do-dah won’t connect,

reboot the system in safe mode, oh hell that big blue screen.

This is where confusion starts, so I’m switching the damn thing off.

Common sense and compassion

could cure the

worlds ills.

But greed and corruption

rules as the

coffers are filled.

Negligent power

is the curse of the earth.

Arrogance kills.

This is not human

This way is a sin

These gross perpetrators

Are not of my kin.

These inhumane ghouls

Live by deception

And narrative spin.

Earth eaters,

polluters,

carrion slime.

Purveyors of suffering and indolent crime.

I despise you,

detest you.

Your way is not mine.

This poem is made up of book titles from books all written by Mary Oliver

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beyond the line of white pines
when in cold winter
the northern winds blow
causing the trees to bow
in prayer for a new budding spring
the leaf and the clouds
set the rules for the dance

across many miles
and many new mornings
sailing upstream on wild waters
the wind turns round in tight circles
and blows from the warmer south-west

after all the things I have seen
and memories saved
in the halls of my deeper mind
this vision strongly remains

i awoke early
in the field of iris and cornflower
in the house of misted blue pastures
when a strand of crystal clear light
cut through the violet haze
and turned all the blue horses white

The moon sees many things

And many moons see more

As many moons go by

There comes a stage in life

Whether you will or no

You find

That you come from another time.

Many moons ago,

When I was a child Christopher Robin

Went down with Alice

To take a good look at the Palace.

Children made up their own games

Reciting rhymes centuries old.

When I was a child spring came on time

So did the snow and the rains.

Telephones had four numbers

Far easier to recall.

The shopkeepers knew our names.

In the hedgerows were many more flowers

And flocks of butterflies.

The moon looked down on quieter roads

Before the domination of the mechanical curse.

The milk cart was drawn by a gentle white horse.

The milk cart was followed by the hearse

And then the horses were gone,

Seven hundred moons ago.

How swiftly times have changed.

The clouds sweep across the face of the moon.

Looking up I see it’s deranged.

The world’s made a sad exchange.

i missed the bus again today
i also missed it yesterday
i missed it going back the other way
i don’t care what you say
the times it comes are wrong
the walk i have is kind of long
good thing my legs are fairly strong
good time to try and sing a song
a plainsong
a folksong
a mournful song
a marching song
as i go along, along
here comes the bus again
but I’m nowhere near the stop
it’s really caught me on the hop
and I’m fit to droop and drop
I hope it’s blasted tires go pop

we try not to let important memories retreat
though the remembrance is often bittersweet
i recall my fathers steady breath
the very thing that vanished with his death
then in my own gestures i see him again
unconsciously inherited they quietly remain
I feel him as I move my hand in that special way
i see it every day
he hasn’t gone away

My name is demanding,
Far too much to live up to
It hover and soars overhead,
Higher than others can reach.
I light the high altar
In temple, chapel and church.
I comfort the dead.
I sit very close to the source.
Close to my hope
Close to my dreams
But this meaning
Is only a chance choice at birth.
No name will ever be me.
My name is so secret
I don’t even know it myself.
I don’t expect to find out.