Where Art Thou Calm?
Silent clouds drift in seditious march to thunderclaps
and the shutter snaps a rainbow’s sporadic dance
from pot of gold to pot of gold. Neither here nor there,
while leaves tremor in the grumblings of a sacred mist.
Where, oh where art thou, dear calm?
The croak of an aging cicada pledges
the return, the rebirth, the life of earth.
A semblance of chaos masks the grand plan.
Unpredictability stamps a stigma of ignorance,
yet Mother Earth allows for nothing to hinder
her tread of constance and authority that
plasters time with absolute control.
Within the tangled tuft of man’s mind
therein lies, enmeshed in the weeds' garden,
a bit of harmony strangled by uncertainty.
The crackled revolution is upon us,
full of cheap strangers who screw
and spin a cleansed desperation. Wasted
light burns hope to ash that piles,
compacted to granite wishes.