I almost missed Blog Action Day, which for me would have been unforgiveable. If we have any one resource in this world that we we rely on for our continued existince, it is a tolerable climate. You know, one that allows us to breathe. And one that keeps our water from drying up. And one that keeps the sun from scorching us if we leave the house. And I just wanted to write a little note about the most important thing that we can do to assist.
Shelve your indifference.
I have a friend who leaves the water running while she does the dishes. I mean, while she does it, the water runs constantly. She scrubs the dish beneath the running tap, and then when she is done scrubbing, she rinses it beneath the running tap. Then she stacks it while the tap is running, grabs another while the tap is running, the washes it again, while the tap is running. If it takes half an hour to do the dishes, then the tap is running for the whole time. Over the course of the year, this habit wastes a lot of water. Over the course of a lifetime, the habit is unforgivable.
Forget, if you can, that there are women and children in some countries that need to walk ten hours per day (often carrying large, heavy, containers) so that the family can have water to eat and wash, have clean clothes and drink enough fluid to remain hydrated. Think of that sacrifice, and of having to make that sacrifice when the water that you are working so hard to get is impure, dirty, or downright brackish. You may be forgiven for thinking that under such circumstances, dirty water is prized, as it continues to provide subsistence level living.
In a city, uneducated children could be forgiven for going through their childhood believing that water came from a tap, and that it was naturally clean. And globally, as more and more homeowners are being forced to pay for their water usage, they may be forgiven for thinking that they can use as much as they like as long as they pay. Whenever it is pointed out that it is a shared resource, they are prone to get defensive.
So my message is this. Be diligent. Everything you use takes away from a common resource. Sorry it isn’t more insightful, but perhaps, just perhaps, it doesn’t need to be.
oving day, and I should have faced this dawn,
should have swaddled myself in armour and rose,
a warrior, from this bed where I, damaged,
lie as a lump beneath white linen,
a snowdrift, but colder.
As the home becomes house, I listen:
it grows bigger - you empty from it -
and him, my son with the dark eyes,
bristles in the hallway, all excitement.
You tell him to put shoes on.
He doesn't understand that you
haven't boxes big enough
to pack the absence of his laughter,
or any room to take
the empty space of where you were.
It's a broken family's husk, this house:
a void for my lone echoes.
What will I do when you go?
I'll wage a war with memory;
overwhelm myself;
try to empty boiling oceans with a thimble.
I'll clench my heart, I'll bare my teeth at God;
I'll drink: twice my weight in bad tequila.
I'll walk, hunched, wild eyes open to the stinging wind
so I can hide the truth in crying;
I'll go unshaved for seasons,
howl at mountains I can't move, and,
jaw set, set firm as a statued-Greek,
I'll cold-store all expression.
It's in this way,
this way, that I'll go about the world, insane with grief,
swinging clubs at the head of each new morning
until I tire of fighting, to return
to this same bed,
here, where we read aloud and laughed,
broke the bread of life,
made love like savages,
and pledged eternities.
But for now, for now I'll hold my place,
right here, right here where I, damaged,
lie as a lump,
a lump beneath white linen,
a snowdrift, but colder. 
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poetry
love poems
hursday. Soft light. The motherlode.
Sheets of absurdity rain down in
clumsy torrents -
silence bends each rule
of acoustics.
Hands are too soft
to pick it up.
All this sharp grief.
All this grief that spins
a virile web through
the doorways; the hearts;
beneath foundations -
a pounding tapestry;
a garotte for the
unctuous air.
This silence isn't.
Frozen polyphony,
idling for the multilayered thaw
of another grey day,
washed in tomorrow's same grey tub.
color-drained, bleached of meaning:
it's not silence -
this hibernating sound -
an ear to a wall declares
there is always something
gasping,
some small sound given
to something that should
be unheard of.
Silence.
The last bankrupt vein
has been fed; the last girl,
beaten;
the last vile name
sleeps in a violent breath.
4am and it peals
from the carpets
and the bedsprings,
and the spot outside the door where
the man, machete depleted,
lay bleeding. Everything screams -
quietly.
The line's end.
Too numb
to be terrified. 
confessional poetry
