Dreams Go Up in Smoke

For this reformed pot-smoking, pill-popping, booze-swilling child of the Sixties, it's a little disappointing that voters in the progressive state of California just said no to legalizing marijuana in yesterday's election. All I say for myself is: It would have been interesting.

Californians also nixed the notion of being governed by the very rich Lady eBay mogul, even if she does come with one of the biggest piggy banks in the world. Over a hundred million bucks later, it looks like her dreams went up in smoke.

My home state apparently prefers the aging former governor famous for once being the boyfriend of a pop star. Any connection to stardom plucks at the heart-strings of the average joe.

But enough politics already. It's going to be 90 degrees today, with clear blue skies. I've got a date with the outdoors to bring some order to the weary ones you'll meet in this poem:

At Least the Red Geraniums Behaved

Shame on the dahlias.
Their stalks, at the autumn equinox,
should be tall and green,
thick with offshoots
blooming like crazy.

Instead they stand in a motley row,
stalks of desiccated leaves
brown as bacon. Just because
they weren’t tended and fed
is no excuse for their poor behavior.
The gardener was busy
tending dying mothers,
fending off bitter brothers,
defending the defenseless
from injustice inflicted
on an entire nation
by the federal effing government.
Couldn’t the dahlias fend for themselves
for one stupid summer?

It looks like an army
with a scorched-earth vengeance
blew through the garden.
Maybe the dahlias are empathetic
mirrors of the gardener’s
scorched-earth soul,
but the tumbling geraniums
never surrendered;
they cheerfully endured
and their bright red laughter
keeps the gardener alive.