Two Poems for Writer's Island

The Gift

birds have flight

fish breathe underwater

plants make their own food

nature has bestowed

the gift on all

but in each

it takes a different form

we have our minds

and everything that stems

from that gift

but now I have

to wonder if

we've used ours well

we've invented devices

so that we can fly

and breathe underwater

we've even gone farther

than all other living things

into orbit and beyond

but what of compassion?

we have not done things

with, but for

we copied the birds

we imitated the fish

and the plants?

we need them

but we don't want

to be like them

we bent them

to our will

to serve our needs

lower than pets

stuck in pots

arrayed in fields

concentration camps

that don't need fences

to keep the prisoners

cultivation now to me

seems like subjugation

domination not dominion

you might say

plants don't feel

we're not doing them harm

you might be right

maybe the plants

are happy to serve us

you might be wrong

maybe the plants scream

at us but we cannot hear

there are waves

we cannot see or hear

out gift doesn't extend that far

maybe it's foolish

to think that plants can feel --

personification

see, even I do it

thinking I can impose

my perspective on others

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This poem was written in response to The Gift prompt at Writer's Island.

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The Key

my house key looks a lot
like my classroom key
I get them mixed up
all the time

what does that say
about me
and my priorities?

their shape is similar
but they are noticeably
different in size
so why don't I notice?

when the key doesn't fit
I know it's the wrong one
it's tactile, not visual

(I can't even talk
about my car key
that symbol of shame
and complicity

because the closest
gas station to my house
is Arco, a BP brand)

what hangs me up though
is that definite article
I want to know
what the key to life is

is it love? is that
the key? or is it
fidelity to that love?

or is it just silly
of me to play
grammar games with the phrase?
as if that were cleverness

I've already talked
of different keys, so one
is obviously not the answer

my work, my home,
my car which transports me
between the two, and my wife
who holds the key to my heart

the physical keys
and the metaphorical
are all splayed about me

so how do I choose?
or are all my choice?
and thus all are
ways to unlock me

now I understand, I think,
that the key is not
the answer, but the question

* * * * *

This poem was written in response to The Key prompt at Writer's Island.