Part 2
I arrive at the car under the tree
now green with pollen washed
down by the pitter-patter
over, then starting-over rain
and it just sat there in its
impertinence getting green
all night long, as if it was my fault.

I opened the hood not sure
what I would do, but I thought
it looked good to open the hood
cause doing nothing seemed
obviously more stupid,
than looking under the hood.

I touched the battery cable,
because why wouldn’t I?
The crackle of spark as
the negative cable moved
suggested the last idiot
who worked on the car
didn’t tighten the cable.

I found the right socket
for I was the idiot and
knew which socket fit
and it was the only one
not of perfectly clean chrome
and tightened the cable.

Walla.. if that’s a word?
The car started up, once
again Repaired, and
I, the idiot, was grateful
to drive it home, with
the realization I should
stick to poetry versus auto repair
and listen to the rain,
pitter-patter.

I went to the store to buy a couple things,
happy the newly repaired car started
and ran great,
until I had a few groceries
and the newly repaired car
would not answer me
when I asked it to start,
so there I sat wondering why
it would work then suddenly not,
and there was no answer at all
except the rain on the roof
that said pitter then patter,
and then started over,
unlike the car that never started over.
So, there it remains sitting in the rain. 
Pitter-patter. 

If dogs had opposing thumbs
would they flood social media
about the butts they sniffed?

If birds could speak,
would they pass on fake news
along the wire?

If people could envision
the future, would we see
what we see today?

Early in the morning I hear the marsh
birds sing their lonely songs, with
repeating melodies, as if they have
no other purpose but to fill the world
with sound.

And I sit with wonder, and think
then write these lonely words, with
repeating rhythm on this page
with no  purpose but to fill the world
with thought.

In a world in which fire is applied
to move the will of the people
to futilely change the arrow of time;
such heat as applied will be absorbed,
returned in an expanding system
which consumes everything on its way
toward further disorder, for entropy
will not be denied and heat moves
to cold, never the other way around.
And the source of fire will too burn
in an inexorable drive toward chaos.

Downhill Run

A white picket fence on an azure sea
cutting the waves on a close haul.
Rounding tight,
jibing for a downhill run
raising colorful spinnakers.
A spectacle for those who care to see

Another race around a track
going nowhere but,
such as the winds allow.
Rounding tight for downhill runs
then floundering when the winds fail.
A spectacle for those who fail to see.

Some rather, wander aimless this sea
going everywhere as the waves allow,
never finding a downhill run
until rocky shores do avail
themselves of an end of sorts.
A spectacle no one should ever see.

Time

If I moved forward in time
would the ghost of myself
give warning to myself?

Knowing if I moved backward in time
I would just laugh at the
mistakes myself is making!

If a Breeze

If a breeze would just be pleasant
and not aspire to a hurricane.
If a rose would just blossom
without the bite of thorns.
If the sea would wave calm and cool
and not rage violent and incoherent.
Then we might never understand
just how dangerous beauty could be.