Anthropocene

I don't track the units our house uses
   admit to      hot steamy musings—
          the indulgent art         of daytime baths

 the damage from nesting 
        upon hearths— 
           smoken open fires

I am the reckless owner of a second car.      once, I joined a board 
    to try to lend honest voice 
          to the purist of greenest of minds
 
who asked;     
     what were you doing?       
           what have you done?

my world-saving begins 
          in the peace from the light in the trees        
               as divine wine— 

through my veins.    of the adored feeling   
         of being poured— 
                through your arms  
          
noticing swollen worms escape     the suffocation of sodden ground, 
       risking death—       
            squashed, squelched, plucked by lucky birds

seeing how the tiny lovebirds—  
       bounce off one another’s auras,  
                   in rings of surrounding joy      

second life is baiting us 
   magnetic raptures on a miserable day 
      gushes of grief— 
         gullies of sadness 
             droplets from the tears of branches
             
    what am I doing? 
                       what have I done?
   
my world-saving emanates from unknowable places
  the sense of invisible hands that hold us—
         
       (all that we might have missed)
  
 

Nature’s alter

It has pretty much rained every day this year where I live in Ireland, water tables everywhere, and still they rise.  

The worms risk all from waterlogged earth, for the freedom to breathe again.

Above are all the tracks to all the poems I've written, best played on shuffle.