painting by Karin Best.
“A man’s ingress into the world is naked and raw.
When his progress is stifled by trouble, his egress
may lead to nowhere.” --John Edwin.
I am standing in a mountain meadow, deep into the
Cascade foothills. The glen is dotted with a floral
rainbow of wild plants--clover, Indian Paintbrush,
Crimson Columbine, Hooker’s Balsamroot, Mariposa
Lilies, Fireweed, Pipsissewa, Lady’s Slipper, and
I bury my face into the wild mint and chives. I chew on
all the yellow plants, painting my lips and teeth golden,
or to you it might seem like a crone’s mustard molars.
I traveled here to momentarily mantle my Trumpitis.
Corona fears, and my emotional fatigue.
But alas, the 2020 fissure still bursts open from my
bowels and my mind. I still find myself bereft. I moan
like an autumn wind in the lonesome treetops, belaying
the late July I crouch within. I scream Civil Rights
epithets and confusing political malarky. There seems
to be no escape from the grievous wounds to this
Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub