Is It Poetry

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How can it be, the hour's calm
Despite all that is happening here
The beat of the world
Foreboding and loud
Yet the chickadee sings its sweet note?

Wherefore the whims of the wind
At ev'ry map dot, it seems
Churning, marching
Fanning the pain
While the porch chime resonates fine?

What of the flames that burn so
Blue, yellow, orange, then to red
Smoke-filled eyes from the North
Westward heart deeply charred
As the core of your Earth sleeps content?

Village in Tibet

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Still
The most fixed of hearts
Vision-filled
Blinded not
Having drifted into the paths
Of many
Too many
Oncoming realities

Sometimes
The most skilled oracle
Caution-filled
Gifted so
Cannot shapeshift the wills
Of we
Predestined we
Hope artists

Move

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What is the loveliest thing
I Am that

Who is the most humble One
I Am He

Where does the Earth need the Sky
I Am there 

The way we must live to fight well
I Am how

The reason that they will hear hope
I Am why

The now to remember your strength
I Am when

All Gone

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The gods seized my feathers
And gave me in exchange
gossamer wings
Because they knew that I must fly
You stole my shoes 
And mocked my innermost:
“dance, will you?”
Because you planned to watch me writhe

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No need any more

Wishing, or worse

A third arm

Ambient days and nights every time

Perfect Puerto Rican coffee

Every time

Porch swings that don’t creak 

A squirrel who’ll stay long after lunchtime

And you 

Open eyes forbid this

But I still break for magic