I used to think that inside the deep heart
of the world gone wild, that we all wanted,
craved, needed, or would acquiesce to,
a yet to be identified
a ‘peace and love’ tranquility
where we all got along
with our dreams—
a musical, moaning chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’
that kept us busy feeling fine as frog hair,
trying harder to make life better for everyone.
But how could heaven’s everlasting light
be so great without a dark side, without the moon
rising in new places dressed in different phases
behind the skeletons of oak and tops of pine?
Rain and storm for free.
Life from dust, the miracle
of green reaching up
to seed itself
should be enough to brave the skullduggery
of all the power-hungry opportunists that slink
and lurk in the shadows. And what of poetry
rooted in the illusion of pillowed clouds?