Processor

It was as simple a thing as pesto
The green of it
The freshness of it
The scent, that, make no mistake,
Made me forget the difficult bridge
I’d thought to jump from
But instead crossed, then burned
On purpose
For good

Stripes

We share Little in common
The Monk and Me
Soft, furtive early risers
Though grounded, I, facing West,
Facing East, He
And dining together, I linger
Dashes, He
Little Green Space we share, we

Mormon Row

With grateful paintbrush in hand, I am leaving space for you

A beautiful a background, careful, I capture the sun

Find now open an area broad enough and close enough to the sky

That your shoulders might fit and comfortably give rest to what is

I know not the shape of you, tho’ your colors, you’ve made clear

Bright-dark weathered patina that complements my tempest greens

Vivid chards of amber to offset my mountainous blues

Your easy frame an open window, a willing respite

Fighting your way, straight to the foreground of me, for me

Withstanding, will they find us, the very wildest of climes

Green

And when we’re nearly ninety-nine

Fading, yet certain of our fate and the love it made with us

Green still, relatively so

We’ll walk, treasuring the sands, the time

Rey

I had a Dream
I persecuted him
I cross-examined him
Until the scales of justice shone into my eyes
Then came dawn
I looked and saw his name
Rey, a prince of light
I spared his life

I was a dream
Pursued by him
He bided his time
My green eyes and my green dress stole his sanity
Then we danced
He jumped and took my hand
It was the city lights
He saved my life

Undistracted

I watched
You watch
The fleeting snow
Before it took its leave
You put down your go

What did it tell you
What it told me
That bruises aren’t all bad
That time heals
All things

We saw
The three of us
You, me and the sky
The blue-green in our eyes’ skies
Not one can predict us

Lincoln Green

Why if we scream
Are we questioned
Our sanity
Our faithfulness
Our allegiance with true patriots

What of war cries
Of the war crimes
Our eyes opened
Our sleeves rolled-up
Our feet planted where lies cannot stand

When Good returns
To the Empire
Who’ll be kneeling
Who’ll be weeping
Who’ll be seeing that they have no clothes

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Spring Green

There was in that dark house
A dark corner
Barricaded by a bookcase
Shelves of borrowed, unused wisdom
Visitors might only glimpse

One trying afternoon
Two deja vu’s too many
A final conversation
A one-sided determination
A voice overdue journeyed forth

And She Said
Let there be light
For She Knew
There should be light
There can be color

There in the aftermath
A dark mess
Cobwebs and chipped paint
A different bookcase revealed
She scrubbed and painted Green

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