poetry

not painful net zero

From https://www.engagelouisvilleco.org/togetheronclimate.

not painful net zero

oh powers that be,
prevailed upon to make net zero
not happen

may you instead find a way
to make net zero
not painful

we can’t exempt our way out
of December fire
or chronic drought
or climate catastrophe

we can’t have a future where
we can predict what the weather will bring
built on a present where
anything goes

don’t grandfather in the status quo
that makes it so hard
for so many
to breathe right now

and what are we to say
to the school kids
who came to council
pleading for this code?

who we already promised
we’d build better?
who we already told
we’d heard?

if money needs finding,
then find it –
as they say,
the banks are full

our town’s already blackened by carbon
and built on coal –
if you’d have blue skies someday
don’t give up on green now

poetry

even the police chief’s house burned

Photo of Louisville Police Chief Dave Hayes by Steve Peterson, special to The Colorado Sun.

even the police chief’s house burned

I learn, this fact mentioned off-handedly
in an article about another officer
who also lost his home

and all the previous press conferences,
him standing calmly in that grey fleece,
one of his only clothes left, take on a new tenor

his clear-eyed steadiness despite
the incineration of his home for 32 years
attains a new level of grace

no, there was no earthly power
that could intercede with those wind-whipped flames,
no pull or clout or in to spare what would be taken

which makes it all the more astonishing
what we were granted: the schools, post office, hospital,
rec center, police and fire stations –

yes, much to be grateful for,
which doesn’t diminish the grief
the police chief felt that night

or that I feel now for him

poetry

my friend recounts evacuating

my friend recounts evacuating

she needed her mother’s things most:
the inscribed book she gave her every birthday,
all the photos left of the two of them.
not having her mother, she needed what remained.

between the house and the car
the wind tore the stuffed animals
from her daughter’s arms,
sent them tumbling down the street –

just another loss that day,
another tribute claimed by wind.

poetry

Semper Fi

Photo posted by Ryan Haylett to the 80027 Facebook page.

Semper Fi

a man pulls one pin from his haystack of a home
and finds the sign he needs

the rest of us watch at the ready
internal compass needles twitching

prepared to find whatever meaning
we might be meant to make

from chaos

poetry

cluttered

Donations for Marshall Fire victims collected by Lance Ferguson. Photo courtesy Rocky Mountain PBS.

cluttered

most of us have more than we need
we comprehend when many lose everything
all at once

we teeter toward equilibrium –
my four umbrellas to your none –
and any space that will take it
is flooded with the too-much most of us have

we let out a satisfied sigh
at getting rid of any of it
(stuff, guilt, excess, clutter)

now there it sits
waiting to go home with someone new
but there are no homes to go back to
and new clutter’s the last thing needed

poetry

first glimpse of the burn

first glimpse of the burn

trees still stand where homes do not
our modern lives more combustible than wood
the neighborhoods not quite leveled
thanks to upstanding blackened trunks
an urban forest of ghost trees

but the homes, the manufactured stuff of our lives,
have been stripped from the landscape,
excepting steel car skeletons

imagine all the books offering themselves to air
raining down on Nebraska
the memory foam and down duvets
cans of oven cleaner going off like bombs
baptismal gowns and placemats
Nerf bullets melting
all the photos licked by flames
consumed by a heat furious enough
to wave it all into wind

only leaving our rocky foundations
and silent charcoal trees

poetry

restoration of water

restoration of water

The same clear stream flows from the tap today
but now it’s changed:
they say it’s safe,
which changes everything.

Charlie told us how it was to wait for water
at the mall in Zimbabwe, after things fell apart.
He’d grown up with safe water,
and when things first went wrong
he thought the water trucks would be temporary.
Someday he’d simply turn the tap again.
But, years later, he still waits in line.

When they said our water wasn’t safe
it was the latest in a string of improbable truths –
like December wildfire
like blocks of charred houses
like insurrection.

So, today, when they invite us
to turn the tap and drink,
I let go a caught breath
that’s been squeezing my throat
ever since we stopped
to fill the first jug.

poetry

on the disbanding of the Sifter Squad

on the disbanding of the Sifter Squad

I signed up to sift ash
but within hours
the public health people
warned us to stop.

Isn’t that just how it is these days
when Grandma’s soup bowl
and a couple of drawer pulls
will find a way to kill you, too?

I was looking forward to playing
neighborhood archeologist.
I was looking forward to finding
something someone had lost.

poetry

To Our Mayor

To Our Mayor

We know your heart holds
a thousand holes
as ash settles on us all.

It would be fair if you felt the flames
one burden too many,
if you asked why this, why now?

Instead we see you on the tv
confident and grateful
patient and protective

ably leading us
away from the brink.

We see how you suffer for us –
the late nights and early mornings,
the thick binders, the endless weeds.

You’re our own Jacinda
and we love you.
You’re engineering us a future.
You’re saving us a home.

poetry

aerial view

Photo courtesy of The Colorado Sun

aerial view

the subdivision’s smile
is now pitted
with yawning cavities
each an uprooted family

the open wounds
are ready for rot

what could we plant
in each smoking crater?
whose roots might fill
these aching holes?

my hand restlessly sifts ash
searching for seed