Where Are the Women?

Where are the women?
Watching the evening news
I am assaulted by images of men
Who beat their chests,
Flail chains across their taut bodies,
Whip metal upon their torsos.
Their voices roar.
They hurl anger towards those watching.
It is a sea of masculinity
A tsunami wave of testosterone
A savage posse
Where are the women, I wonder?
Home cooking, crying, cradling children, cringing in corners?
Where are the women?
When the men come home from their rampage,
Do they make love to the women?
Do they hold children in their muscle-bound arms?
Do they lend help to an old mother?
I want to tell them to lay down their cold, steely weapons:
The whips and guns and knives,
The instruments of destruction.
Cleave instead unto your women and savour the warmth of human flesh.

The Corkscrew Hazel Died This Year

The Corkscrew Hazel died this year.
For over thirty years its gnarled and twisted branches did their best, Strained their necks to reach slivers of sun.
But you planted it too close to the house.
It bent over backwards to get out of its shade.
Alas, it has finally given up the battle and conceded defeat.
It dropped its leaves in Spring and no amount of coaxing could bring it back.
It was too late.
I look at my hands, my face, my back.
They too are gnarled and twisted. They too in pain from all the effort of trying to lean into you.
I bent myself to you, my sun God, but I too have reached too far and feel ready to crack and give up the fight.