CHOICES WE MAKE

Choices we make

Air barely breathable

Breath sustains life

Change feeds diversity

Differences better the Earth

Except when we pollute and

Foul the air we breathe

Gathering all our resources

Harvesting all our fields

Inking monies to replace

Jewels that can feed us

Kale, beans, cherries, apples

Little did we know when we

Meddled in the balance of

Nature, laying waste to the

Opulence it offered while we

Papered our walls with currency

Quality of life second to

Reaping the hollowness of wealth

Squirreling away

That which cannot sustain

Us while we

Vainly try to

Win economic wars and

Xenophobia blooms while

Youths wonder what the

Zenith of altered climate will bring

Eye Vistas

“Bette Davis eyes”

she has those eyes

that stop you in your tracks

I look in my cat’s eyes and

sometimes see savannahs

eyes flickering, shadows waving

in the wind in gardens that

delight and grow not food for

kitchens but food for eyes

Liz Taylor eyes

a hue compelling in a face

that gave movie screens

a new standard of beauty as

compelling as flowers that feast

on palettes more varied than

any artist can replicate on canvas

tube paints splash rainbows

but the color that truly binds me

in awe is that in Taylor’s eyes

Evening falls

or so they say

here on Earth

the sun rises in the East

sets in the West

setting is falling

though

truly falling is the way

I fell for you

weightless

a feather on a wing

breaking free

gliding effortlessly

among clouds

reclining artlessly on wind

as it spins whirling

through treetops

past nests

squirrels

there was no stopping

no catching hold

landing in your hands

was a breath of relief

Ghosts

I pick up the old charm bracelet

feel a wisp of wind caress the

back of my hair, like his hand

brushing hairs back in place

a chill runs down my spine as memories

threaten to overwhelm today’s sense of

time and place

More rummaging through the drawer

uncovers a photo of Gramma

on her 70th birthday surrounded by family

they’re all smiling

some laughing

I was there

much younger then

now I’m 70, like she was

.

She’s gone. Her son’s gone.

Many others too.

It’s easy to lose count.

Not easy to forget

surrounded by items that I’ve

only to touch to feel presences

photos are powerful

Items used over and over again

even more so.

Got my Dad’s TV when he passed

I picked up the TV remote and

was knocked back by

the force of his presence

it was like his hand was holding mine

Stunned, I dropped the remote

I waited a few hours and tried again

the effect was weaker but potent

after that, there was no effect at all

the energy had disappeared

gone into me I wondered

I felt inside

wandered through internal organs

searched within my brain

within my emotions

found nothing like what had been there

guess he was gone again

wonder why I never got that

jolt from any of my Mom’s stuff

don’t know what she held onto

so closely that would’ve held onto her

would’ve thought her knitting needles

but no, I have those, nothing there

she was always in the background

quiet, hiding

I never really knew her

and now I wonder who she was

the ghost in the house

Looking for creation

Throw seeds in the dirt

around your house or in

a pot on your porch

and see what pops up.

Any seeds will do.

Though old dried-up seeds

may not produce anything,

still, they’ll feed something else

in the land, on the land.

Squirrels in my backyard

love dried up corn kernels

on corn cobs; they pick them

up and carry them off to their dens.

Anything can be food.

cycle of life

Who says there’s no other

life in the universe,

the whole unimaginable

universe full of stars,

rocky moons, volcanic planets,

black holes at the middle of galaxies,

terrifying expanses of dark matter.

Do squirrels look up into the

night sky envisioning their like

out among the starry heavens?

You think not with their tiny

brains, but what do we know of

brains? They work in mystery.

We see how they are tied

to our arms and legs

as pulleys and gears, a walking

mechanism; a hugging mechanism.

Where’s ourselves, our egos?

Do our bigger brains have a special

compartment for that which makes us, us?

Squirrels don’t have the

room in their petite heads, but we do.

In our little hidey-hole, all we are

exists in a cushion of blood,

plasma, cells, dendrites, electrical pulses.

The question always is, does it survive

outside its hidey-hole when the

blood dries up and we breathe our

last breath? Will we find out before

we perish? I hope so. If not, maybe after.

Check out Linda Miller's books on Amazon (Poems to Amuse, Bemuse, and Entertain and The Short, and sometimes, Sweet, a collection of haiku) and poems published in various books (A Vision, A Verse Volume 1; All-Time Favorite Poetry Book; yada yada) and magazines (Adelaide, Porcupine, Rue Scribe, Evening Street Review, etc.).