Begins as innocence, not being smart
enough to know it hurts to be blue in a red world.
As the man says: Happiness is being too stupid to know
what to worry about.
 
Bless those who get crushed, because Phoenix rises.
Forged in fire, the insurrectionists:
Government mandates? No way.
Eating animals? Not anymore.
Polluting our drinking water? Bastards.
Eating plastic bread? Not us.
Glyphosate on our lettuce? Don’t get me started.
Little kids digging for lithium?
Africa a dumping ground for our old computers?
Deforestation and burning the Amazon?
There is a long and varied ‘et cetera’.
 
The new rebels are different, scorned
by those who march in step. Laughed at by their peers,
punished by teachers, parents, employers, their governments…
Broken and remade with their first mutiny, reclaiming the truth,
marching for peace, environment, against racism.
Mention a good cause and they’ll be there with you.
Anyone old enough to remember Greenham Common?
It’s not something that started today.
Like sex, it was invented a while back.
Heard of the suffragettes?
 
Once you’ve been shoved out into the cold by those
who are supposed to protect you, a little rebellion is
all in a day’s work. Giving politicians the mental finger,
reading their lies, being prodded and spat at
for their pains is akin to daily bread.
 
Those too cowardly to leave the well-trodden path
always have the courage to mock those
who make them feel uncomfortable.
But every day the army of non-conformists grows.
Soon they will be the majority.
Let them stay kind.
                        

Look for the spaces between words, the hand cupped to receive water,
find the question without answers or the great, ecliptic circle, 
seemingly eternal and reliable, but there are doubts.
Then there is the hunger in your eyes,
the crumpled sheets of a lovers’ bed, the musty smell of sweat and sex,
the sunny green pushing through spring leaves in a glen,
the flowers of knotweed.
Fresh croissants and éclairs from Fouquet’s
in the Champs Elysées, the first log fire of an early autumn evening,
woodsmoke pushed down by a gentle breeze, 
freshly cut grass, petrichor, of course, and watering a dry lawn
after a long, hot August day. 
which brings me to the seconds between lightning and thunder,
and bodyless presences when the clock strikes three am.
Then think of dark eddies in the brook under the willow
and add a Nyad or two. Oh, I could go on, as could you.
But this will do for now and anyone who asked.