We’ve Run Out of Some Paints – A Poem by JP

I’d paint the page with sunflowers and marigolds,
But Wordsworth’s nature is long in its grave.

We have forgotten the cold mountain stream,
The little birds in the blueberry bush,
The worms wiggling beneath their hungry beaks,
And the sound of the forest is deafening for us
As the chainsaw’s roar over heavy machinery.
For us nature is a conversation,
A metaphor for human care and change,
and a political questioning of the trees
in search for meaning when we bludgeon a rose
and all the beauty that it has stood for.

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The Death of Bees

itness now the death of buzzing bees,
the bloodbath human and the brood’s disease–
witnessed upon the earth, in wild and wood,

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The Changing of the Leaves

Fall is a dream.
It comes the east,
where people dare not dwell,

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The ever decreasing minutes of day

The ever decreasing minutes of day
trickle like the granules in an hourglass;

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On a Possible Future

The beetle takes the last emerald
that’s jutting from the snow;
a nature more valuable

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Endless Weight

I have gone out into the snow,
braving the winter’s fiery cold,
and searched for rabbit high and low
when frosty mitts refused to hold.

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Flower – Short Poem

Flower,
perfect pearl blue.

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Her Autumn – Poem

When among the trees will autumn come?
What multitude of words will I have lost
among the soft-dying of sweet summer poppies

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The Nature of the Heart

The heart is a hunter searching
before the dead of winter has melted;

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A Morning Hike

Under the figs
I woke to fog and dew,
white oaks, and mist

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I’m Going Back

Going back now, I see the stand of pines,
the mountain climbing out of green to white
caps enshrouded in clouds and flanked by snow.

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Yellowish pad

My breath fogs the window,
some promise out of science
has arrived,

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The Stillest Things

The summer crests and meets
fleeting flecks of dyeing dog days,
an era vanishes into the past—

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