a poem in my pocket

“Hope is not a resting place but a starting point – a cactus, not a cushion.” -H.Jackson Brown Jr.

camping adjacent to saguaro national park
gave access to the park trails so we followed
path past park bench to fork and rock painted
with words: far west trail. another fork and a sign
painted with a loop and you are here. “let’s follow
the loop,” i said, not knowing how far it led away
before leading us back again.

desert introductions are intriguing as we met
various species of cacti: prickly pear and purple
prickly pear, majestic saguaro (some pointing the way
with crooked arms and others on their way out, dry ribs
exposed), ocotillo, and barrels in bloom. “i’m tired,” he
said and pretended to sit on a barrel. unaware, we were
ankle ambushed by a teddy bear cholla, ow!

maybe desert is hostile environment after all with
water and daylight running low, we fear we’re only
ones still out on trails…how cold does it get at night?
did we miss a fork or is it up ahead? met a guy walking
his dogs and he reassures us, “it’s 300 yards ahead to the
fork.” we find hope and the park bench at sunset, footsore
after 7.9 miles round trip from home on wheels.

Sometimes political rhetoric sounds a lot like Bilbo Baggins at his 111st birthday party: ” I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.” -J.R.R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring 

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i probably should not say this but

would tell a loud lie by my silence so:

have you heard how (well, you will now)

americans are more confused in ’24?

we will caucus (or maybe couscous)

and vote in primary without primary

names on ballots (pass the shallots)

a former president still wears title,

unembarrassed by indictments; can’t

his party find fresher (parsley, please?)

while current office holder is propped to

take the stand if only he wouldn’t stumble

over words, thoughts, and own border.

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Linking to Sanaa’s “litotes” prompt at dVerse Poets’ pub.

backyard maple tree

leaves of burnt orange and red

fall like sparks from flame

shy, precious girl

blushing in pink,

found yet lost

floating between green

dreams downstream

of rocky waterfall…

seems deeply refreshed

in shallows of peaceful

slumber but strangely

oblivious to cries…

no obvious trace

of blood where

tragedy struck

after family picnic.

frantic questions

why her? why now?

fell…pushed…or

(no!) jumped??

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An ekphrastic poem in response to Maria Berrio’s “Closed Geometry (2022) and Grace’s prompt at dVerse poets’ pub…