By: Ian Randall Wilson
A Peaceful Country
Now that the report is in
the nation in all its nakedness
mouths the platitudes.
Is this the time
to speak of what
must be done
when butterflies are flying
like orange comets in the day?
A bird in the hand, well,
the birds are chirping, too.
From the trees, so much noise
it's impossible to sleep.
I had hoped to settle
into this piece of time,
to assemble all the puzzle parts
and know what was what.
It seems the fox
will kill the hens this year
and escape once more,
the coop a mess
of feathers and blood.
You may ask why no one
stops it. You may ask how
the earth turns on its bright axis
while those concerned toss salt
over the left shoulder
for luck, and the rest
in hopes the demons
will not pursue them.
The time has come
to change your life--
Have you heard that whopper?
Old beliefs, like justice
for all, like a hand
reaching from the crowd
grasps for help
and not to steal
your purse.
Social Media
Oh Twitter jeremiad,
you have not yet achieved
the compulsory competency
of the madman on the rock.
Your words are misaligned
and the nuns who taught you spelling
hide their heads in shame.
If they could but discipline you
with their stiff rulers,
beating your knuckles
until your hands
stop typing
and you put
away your devices
to look up
from the screen.
How bright the world might be.
The sunrise is singing,
birds, a chorus of hope.
The branches of the old oak
wave like store greeters
welcoming you home.
Peace is there in aisle 9
and harmony in the back row
next to faith, on the bottom shelf,
which I'm sorry to report
is being discontinued next month.
Yet the soft green meadow grass
calls out for you to lie on it.
Be reborn in a puff of cloud.
If you'll only rest in the forest cradle
beneath the spangled light of the world.
The doe in the woods
is staring,
no one move.
Mosquitoes Will Inherit The World
On the last walk around the last garden, the sun blisters, turning all the formerly temperate into sand. That's a little taste of the times ahead, sweet boy, the future that's more expensive than the weight of earth in gold. Those two degrees of warming was wishful thinking by the counsel of platypodes. We're headed toward five but by that time, they'll be gone, so why bother change-- I mean, won't the superheroes save us like they always do? Meanwhile, I carry my reclaimed recycled repurposed reprocessed shocking pink nylon sack like a circus strongman. I stack my empties in the big blue bin out back for the homeless pick through and carry off what they can sell. To those who will listen, I preach the empty language of word balloons. I tell myself, I am doing something, dumping the used coffee grounds on the mulching bed as an offering to the environmental gods. I tell myself, I am doing something, culling food scraps for the compost heap so the microbes can feast. I cut down on meat and don't run the air-conditioner in the heat. All glory to the penitent of sweat! Mine is but the cheapest sacrifice, no better than paste jewelry. The way people say, "Sorry for your loss" or "he's gone to a better place" or best of all: "Everything happens for a reason." Tell that to the Cryptic Treehunter who will hunt no more in the forests of Brazil. Tell that to Miami, when it drowns. All our gems are forsaken. The obituary for the topsoil has been written. When there are no dogs left, who will listen to the earthworms sing?
Ian Randall Wilson's fiction and and poetry have appeared in a number of literary journals including the North American Review, The Gettysburg Review and Alaska Quarterly Review. A short story collection, Hunger and Other Stories, was published by Hollyridge Press. His first poetry collection, Ruthless Heaven, was published by Finishing Line Press. He has an MFA in Poetry and in Fiction from Warren Wilson College, and is on the fiction faculty at the UCLA Extension. By day he works at Sony Pictures in Los Angeles.