No More Snow Days

those frozen crystals
one after the next
swirl and gust, dance
in sky, as we stare
hoping streets turn white

with each inch on ground
silent time arrives
waiting by the radio
listening to county
after county close schools

for children only think
of sledding and cocoa, and
knocking powder off oak branches
landscape like the untouched moon

today with Zoom the flakes
still descend, but screens trap
the young inside their computers
a flat warm world without end
no more snow days

Artificial Intelligence

evolution, acorn becomes
the tree, caterpillar a
butterfly, soar into future
skies, on screens with
robotic machines choosing
videos that emerge to
distract us away from
here, the present day
always leaving the 
past behind, and perhaps
this should be
until we finally 
become like drawings
in the cave

look how those
humans used to be
so simple and so free
now we are all 
just technology

Have You Noticed?

Have you noticed that the earth
is always turning, that shadows 
really do move across grass, 
stone, everything?

Have you noticed that nature’s 
wind touches all of life, 
caterpillars, green ivy leaves, 
chipmunks, tree trunks?

Have you noticed the white 
cloud canvas, sparrow silhouette 
in springtime sky, chirping 
and flirting with the sun?

Have you noticed the bees 
with their stingers, moving 
from flower to flower, not 
thinking about us at all?

Have you noticed how fast 
we move through our days, 
from screen to screen, with 
all the rest unseen?

At 80 Years Old

If I wanted, every day could be a funeral.
So simple, just put a name into the computer,

wait for the obituary to pop up. Those older guys
are gone, my coaches, teachers, even that camp

counselor from Pine Island, up in Maine, he
could hold his breath underwater for 2 minutes.

Never thought they’d all go away, but there’s
the little candle, Legacy.com warming the screen

with another smiling photo. I read all the comments,
deeply miss her, sincere condolences, with such

a heavy heart. And I feel the weight of age with my
scrolling fingers, try to remember the last time I

saw him, her. What did we talk about? Maybe I’ll
google their kids, see where they ended up.

Minutes pass and I close the laptop,
pretend they’re all still alive.

Internet Will Save Us

It used to be just books,
parchment and a quill,
perhaps the trunk of an
old oak tree for support

during pauses to reflect
on words, cradling novel’s
spine. This was before the
nothing of everything, lurking

images, news, videos, email,
promising connection to a
world of always distraction,
attempts to evade our depth,

knowing that internet will save
us from ourselves, but the longer
we stare into that flat abyss,
the more we disappear.

Emergency Money

I have a stack of one-dollar bills tucked away
in a drawer, because a friend told me that when

it happens, cash will be the only way to survive
without internet and impaired technological

devices. When it happens, I suppose I will want to
buy water and Clif Bars, and maybe some chocolate,

easy on the tongue, when everything else fails,
like power lines and no NBA game on TV.

And some days I find myself ruffling through the
bills, counting them up, imagining them tucked

into my jeans as I amble into jagged earthquaked
streets, or knee deep in the water of all demise.

And in these moments, my cherished
money looks like frail pieces of faded paper.

Pontiac

my daughter already talks about the
car she wants an Audi, new, shiny
that her friends will admire like
her iPhone with apps that take
wrinkles out of faces in photos

I tell her about my maroon
dented station wagon, Pontiac
1986 Michigan-made to barely
last past puberty

I parked it with pride
my piece of remembering
that life is unreliable
always ready to
start then stop

blind to history my daughter
will never know the struggle of
driving a car that quit, gave up

for her they don’t exist
like rotary phones
like an indigenous name
turned into painted steel