LAX

Gateway to the Pacific:
a sprawling web of asphalt stitched
with glowing red and blue and green,
hundreds of thousands of people some
with baggage some without
arriving on airplanes the size of
monuments like the steel carousels
beyond immigration lines and stamps,
a haven for tired travelers from
places far across the sea, all flights
incoming planes circle
above waiting to touch down
while cars crawl along painfully
honking and weaving and loading
the sweet smell of smog and jet fuel
the familiar sound of cars whizzing by
on highways six lanes wide
and roaring jet engines
and scampering feet
the endless beat of LAX.

The Woodsman Watches

as smokestacks spew
burning yellow sulfur
tainted chunks of floating lint
hardly clouds, hazy
streaking across
diseased rivers, winding through
forests uncomfortably warm, clinging to
dry sour soil
gasping
foul air sinks to the bottom
of the chest, it
bleeds through bare feet
seeps out from pores
lurks beneath skin.

Sigh

It is as if the world turns and looks
when the last of autumn flutters to the ground,
a moment suspended in time--
like the setting sun's tenacious will.
Twirling circles in air, with conviction,
sinking in a downward spiral
spin and float and plummet!
play with my heart.
I stand still
I hold my breath--
for the landing marks an end
to unending groves of red and orange,
butterflies dancing to a radiant breeze
and drizzles of magic.