The dusky evening of the Fourth of July, a pearly sky, the river’s mirroring this moment in time.
I will try to be your ears and mind…
Rockets from different directions began to call to each other, as if lost whales sounding the seas, listening for life within the deep.
Fire flies flashing over the river, little explosions of yellowy green, reflecting upon the, ever so ever, just rippling water, as the dusk takes on the dark.
Makes you wonder,
are the fish frisky down under?
The sky is popping pounds of puffy purples.
Suddenly, dandelion seeds exploding in the night, at the tail end, a sizzling sound!
Popping, snapping, strangely imploding!
The sky is a spray of lilac flowers!
Every blue blooded
neighbor is exploding fire works which echoes off some distant wall, sounding as little pops of Champaign corks.
Even the clouds are rolling and exploding dusky peaches and orange zest, as the sun’s last rays slowly sinks to the West.
Our light will shine upon some distant time. If we were judged by our T.V., what would you think of we?
May these explosions celebrate the tenacity of life, even as we alienate the wide-eyed wildlife.
A time of male testosterone,
men stepping up
to put out wild fires.
This is the land of the home of the brave.
This is the land of a beer
and a babe.
A far off train imitates the pockets of rockets, with its horn at full blaze, just beyond the ozone haze.
Rockets go up and rupture neon pink, turquoise blue, and green,
a bit of everything.
The clouds roiling in the sky now pale blue-grey, with soft satin bellies and billowing high.
Then, at quarter to midnight, Your lightning shattered bright white.
Your thunder rolled across the valleys as it crashed through the trees.
The birds flew high into the
evening’s cool breeze, and swarmed the air
as the light crackled a jagged gear. Down beneath, lanterns of party boats
slowly sailing home,
wrapped in coats of roofs.
Their laughter's happening on the lantern lit river’s stream, little ripples repeat this sweet dream.
Hear the voices of the sons and daughters
of the home of the free!
coming home freest.
Your sky falls down, raindrops propelled into the river's path, flows down Your hills of the gated homes, past Your tin-roofed poor, cries out to the seas, which are lifted into the clouds,
the circle’s complete.
You are our water wife.
You are the giver of life.
By far, the most amazing show on Earth!
You’re the light that gives us birth.
Boulder resident Jeff Blumenfeld’s new book, "Travel With Purpose: A Field Guide to Voluntourism," shows travelers how to identify the right location and volunteer opportunity, how to go about planning trips and preparing for volunteering, how to reach out, how to help.
"Are you going to write a review?" my friend asked at the soiree at the CU Alumni Center an hour before opening night...