The Painter

infinite stretch
I reach
 rub green through   Nature
trees on my
    fingertips
    color of our lungs
on rainy afternoons
    a lush world
blooms slow
like a    Lotus
     half-open
I wait
     planet of mud
 hands     outstretched
      to the blue
it pours
               leaves
are greener
     lost nights
I write
     places with
pumpkin purple
     horizons
and
  blood orange
      suns
      smeared ink
I erase
  blood blue
        stains
  on      page
        when the pen
     breaks
   I bleed     out

Washing Up 

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been

digging

hit bone, hit earth,

hit rock, hit bone
You are gone
deep in Earth’s

core,

away from the

center

of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been

cleaning

up your

blood

from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s

 

lipstick
I thought I was her

then there was

you

consuming me

like a

fresh

catch
I bit the bait

but never bled

Trapped

I am here
in wind
I am gone
among leaves
and dirt,
I am buried
I am earth.

I search,
I dig
with dull shovels
for my curly
brown hair,
swallowed
by the mud
of rainy days.

I dig
and hit bone,
hit flesh,
hit earth,
but never find
arms
to pull.

Saving the Planet

Saving The Planet

                                     Earth day slapped me in the face
with blue and green continents
that turned black — not only at night.
Smoke stacks and bright lights                    escaping hustle bustle
rustled the trees

when the wind blew                            across              the              concrete        jungle
and into my lungs,
it tasted                                            like dust, like lost children and struggling   mothers,
like soap and milk cartons and M&M’s.

                                                     Disgusting.
I took a bite of my life and it tasted like trees.