2016 01 04
After midnight Tina sits on the hill
of melancholy hope, back to the world
of shining city towers and gliding cars,
and stares at vast infinity of space.
"My notebook of poems got smeared by foul mud
and I lost my pen in the tangled grass,
but what good are all the poems I could write
if another meteor smacks our world?
How small and fragile in vast universe
our ball of dirt spins nowhere for no reason,
one speck of dust among zillions of stars
that swirl in galaxies of burning song.
In all the wild teeming turmoil of life
creatures devour other creatures for food
in constant consumption of sizzling souls,
so this world is formed from heaps of dead bodies.
Our sun and planets from blast of big bang
spiral lost forever toward empty void
so all my poems are nothing but weak cries
of aching hope to regenerate life.
Though I scratch letters to capture my thoughts
in shifting sands on lonely beach of time,
relentless waves of change roar from abyss
to wipe away my verses without care.
I hear the crackling voice of ancient time
in radio waves that ripple across space
from the farthest edge of our universe
and so I sing in harmony with death."
Gathering eggs, herbs, seeds, flowers, and nuts
in basket she wove for Easter egg hunt,
Tina trudges home and sits by the hearth
sketching rainbows, angels, and unicorns.