Tag: USA

poetry

instability rules

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instability rules

it may be their first move of several
she patiently explains –
the adjuster figures three months
of smoke remediation
but insurance will only approve
one month’s lodging at a time

so, by the time next month’s okayed
the Airbnb they’re in now
may be booked by someone else
and they’ll have to start all over
all over again

suddenly I see how these displaced children
won’t just be displaced once
families may be shuffled around
for months, or years
for those rebuilding

one thousand households
dwelling in uncertainty

instability rules

poetry

Build a Bedroom / Room Rally / Hope Lives Here

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Cover photo from the Hope Lives Here - Colorado Facebook Group.

Build a Bedroom / Room Rally / Hope Lives Here

Please consider supporting Lindsey McMorran’s Build a Bedroom project by purchasing an item from one of the wish lists she’s assembled for families displaced by the Marshall Fire. Join the Hope Lives Here – Colorado Facebook group to see what needs to be purchased next.

Lindsey’s rebuilding one bedroom at a time
letting kids who’ve had everything taken
dream up the space they’ll dream in next
then granting wish after wish

she hustles after what they’re missing most:
geodes, succulents, a zebra with a bow
she posts the lists, rallies the donors, pulls it together
then bam a kid opens a door to a brand new room

it’s easy to say things are just things
when you’ve still got all your things about you
but sometimes things are symbols or substitutes
standing in for people you’ve lost or days you loved

no, it won’t fill all the gaps, undo all the terror
but it is starting over with a bang
knowing so many care what you love
and wish you sweet dreams again

poetry

facing Harper Lake

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Photo by Chris Hansen of 9 News (KUSA).

facing Harper Lake

today a stranger and I made plans
to face the lake together

we’ve both been round its tame shore
enough times to expect the cottonwood to the south

and the Indian Peaks view to the west
but what we’re not quite prepared for

is what’s left of the homes we saw on TV
sending great jets of ravenous orange flame

into the night, seeming to burn for hours
with a tender couple silhouetted before that wall of fire

we know what a luxury it is
to not have seen it all yet

to not have to deal in the daily minutiae
of Right of Entry forms

and adjusters
(and knowing whether that’s -er or -or)

agents and policies and replacement everythings
rentals and architects and builders and plans –

plans, most of all –
no, we go about our days with the privilege

of not needing to plan much of anything,
able to choose when to face the lake

on our own terms,
a choice that couple never had to make

poetry

not painful net zero

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.