The Heedless Sun

The Heedless Sun

By: ElizaBeth Whittington


The sun rises


Of how many moon beams

You drank the night before



Does not apologize

For the heaviness

Of your heart


The wind still blows

Across tree and water

No matter

How stale the air in your mind

Has become



the moon

Sits like a lump

in your throat



The weight of your heart


To crack your ribs



The wind carries only

The scents of

Piss and dread and death



The Earth rotates

People celebrate

Sun & moon & rock

Air & fire & water


The sun would shine

on your sorrowful face

If only you’d lift it


From time to time


Your heavy heart

Is reminding you

Gravity’s purpose

Is to get things in motion


Keep loving.

Even when it hurts

Keep moving

The Earth will not stop

For your grief.


But You can.


You can stop.


The wind is whispering

The secrets of the universe

On top of a mountain

Right NOW!


Get there.

It awaits only

Your enlightened ear

To hear it.



You, dear human

Are not immune

To the pulls


These moon beams

Will pull emotional

Tidal waves

Of the shifting sands of self


This sun will blind

Your dark-accustomed eyes

This gravity will pull you down


The wind will blow through

And down

That which does not

Heed Earthly/space-ly



Allow this.

Allow your heart

To feel the weight of the world sometimes

Stop taking it so fucking personally


Be the consistent


Which sheds light

On your shades of night.


Be the wind

That whispers truth

Through forest and city

(Sing softly.)


There are ears


Your unique song

Of enlightenment


Shine, pull, blow, repeat.

Inhale, pause, exhale, repeat.

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There is a woman

who has saved countless lives

who is right now

dying of cancer


There is a metaphor in there somewhere.


There is a doctor

who studied

The inequity of treatment

of black people’s health in the US

who died unexpectedly from a preventable blood clot

three weeks after birthing her first child


There is a poem in there somewhere.


When my loved one attempted suicide

after the upset resided

I couldn’t help but feel

like I’d won the poetry lottery


Where was my pen, then?

When the painted lady migration

swept like vibrant leaves through my city?


Those dainty wings

greeted me at stoplights

and bus stops

and danced dizzily

around my garden- giddy


I recall how my sunglasses clacked

as they were the last thing

two butterflies ever felt

On my twilight bike ride

creek side

The willows wept and the falling leaves sighed


All the while

I was thinking

About how cancer

and war

and depression

and death

Is the stuff

that poetry is made of.


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Warm Truth

It’s 11:30, no-wait-shit-it’s 11:50 am.

I’ve been laying bed reading angsty poetry.

But it’s okay,  no one is paying me

for my body today.

My roommate is learning piano downstairs.

I feel proudly annoyed.


There is a glass water bottle,

a philodendron plant,

a pot of dusty soil stuffed with half burnt incense sticks

an unplugged lamp with a broken lighbulb

and a silicone cock

on my nightstand.

And by nightstand I mean milk crate

stuffed to capacity with chapbooks of local poets

bound books of largely mostly dead poets and

a few ponderous tomes of Native American History.


It’s interesting how describing the nearest thing to you

Always seems to tell you

more than you want to know about yourself.


Let’s not be coy here.


I am debating between making coffee or yoga first.

I thought I might buy gifts for people today.

But I don’t think that will happen.

I don’t get paid til Friday.

Buying cheap gifts for people I love would just make me sad.


It’s a kind of playing-guitar-in-your-pajamas

kind of day.

There was something I was supposed to do today…

slit my wrist?


No… that was just a dark fantasy

There was something else…

Call my therapist.

That’s right, that’s what I was supposed to do today.

No wait- I was supposed to call yesterday about meeting today.

Yep.  That was it.


The snow we got last night is melting and it breaks my heart.

I wanted a snowday’s excuse in hell

to cuddle under purple blankets

and fantasize about warm blood- I mean-coffee.

Warm coffee.


I’d go make coffee

pour the hot liquid over sizzling crushed roasted

delicious beans of colonial globalization


my room and bed are warmer than the rest of the house

and that’s a warm truth to wallow.




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I Would

I would say I want to be

The cigarette between your lips

But I’m trying to purge myself

Of toxic relationships


I would tell you

You’re the only one for me

But I’m not fond of lies

Or monogamy


I would compare you to a summer’s day

If you weren’t so dark and brooding

I would of course try to ease your pain

If I thought my words were soothing


And I’d offer to sit by you

But I know you need your space

I’d ask you how you’re feeling

But I can read your face


I would tell you it will be alright

But I can’t promise anything

But if you’d like to raise your voice

With you, I’d gladly sing

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America- A Ginsberg Tribute

America, why can’t you sleep?

Maybe you can call in a favor from the pharmaceutical companies.

(I’m kidding, of course, you can’t pay those premiums)

America, when will you end this charade?

Your dialogue is lame, I could’ve written it in third grade,

(Except I went to your public schools)


America, you’ve got blood on your shirt.

Is that oil on your boots?

Are those the same bootstraps we’re supposed to pull ourseleves up by?

America, when are the reparation checks coming?

America, do you remember signing a treaty?

How about 250?


I think you might have amnesia.

Have you seen a doctor for that?

Oh… right.


America, there’s a black snake on your belly.

It looks hungry.


America, what will you do when Mexico stops sending you produce?

America, your bread basket is over-flowing with inedible corn.

America, who, I mean,

what, is the last thing you ate?

America, I was a patriot as a child and I am ashamed.


America, I think you actually have selective memory;

Remember September 11th?

Of course you do.


America, a girl was raped in the bathroom of her school yesterday.

Don’t look so surprised.

I noticed you were smug it wasn’t you this time.


America, don’t act like you discovered yourself.

A genocide by any other name is still a rose.

America, stop plagiarizing.


America, you look really good in those jeans.

Where did you get them?

How IS China, by the way?

Are you two still talking, or just importing?

I know how it goes.


America, how does your Army grow?

I got these jeans delivered by drone.

Obama, I mean, America, what did you deliver by drone?

America, I think we should talk…

Not now, maybe after the news…

I’m sorry,

What were we talking about?

I was looking at Facebook


America, don’t forget to subscribe and comment below.

America, I’m feeling nauseous.  Don’t rush me, I’m going somewhere with this.

Betsy, I mean, America, can I opt-in to a radical re-education?


Are you reading my emails again?

America, it occurs to me I can’t sleep.

I woke up from your dream

And I’m talking to myself again.



So, America, the Russians aren’t going to nuke us anymore… right?

What is North Korea up to these days?

America, it looks like you got some Syrian children waiting to come in,

aren’t you going to open the door?

America, have you ever heard of diplomacy?

You’re right…

It does kinda rhyme with corporatocracy.



If embryos

And corporations

Are people…

Then what does that make us?


America, ssshhh

Turn down your TV…

Do you hear the bees?

Hmmm, that’s strange, it’s spring.



Have you written your eulogy for winter

Puerto Rico or



Or should I?



I still love you.

It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way about me.


America, please, stop tweeting for a minute,

I just want to listen to the birds.

America, thanks for the tax return?

America, what’s your credit score?

America, I think we should start seeing other people…

Black and brown ones for instance.

America, did you hear about the trans woman

Who died last night?

Yeah, me neither.

America, no, that was not a punchline.

America, it’s hard to tell,

But I really DO like you,

Just not THAT way.

America, all you ever do is talk about yourself.

I’m reminded, again, that I am America.

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An Ode to Autumn Rain

Oh resplendent regal raindrops

Lifeblood of Autumn’s being

Bringing cause for all to stop

And reflect on sun-baked soil’s steeping


So unlike ecstatic hectic hailstorms

Drenching winter-hardened soil

When first seedlings were born

Of loud and crashing vernal toil

From you, sweet one, my face does not recoil


Oh Autumn rain, you’ve come again

To smooth my sun-smote soul

No more urgent lightening summer rains

With thunderous bellowing rolls

In you, dear one, I am content to take my evening stroll


Your placid grey, a welcome shade

After months of vibrant hues

I welcome rest, for long I played

In forest greens and beauteous blues

You offer rest- seasonal death- to seeds I’ve sown and things I do.


Oh dainty drops, your misty music sounds

On bough and branch and leaf and flower

You’ve quieted these cities into a sleepy towns

With your cool and muted shower


Autumn Rain, if I may, beseech you now to stay

I have need of your quiet, cool and calm

At least another day

So linger awhile, for this parched soul, come and be my balm

And endure my humble gratitude and my bumbling psalms

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No longer content with industrial feudalism, no longer subdued by fast food, no longer fooled by advertising gimmicks, the first world is waking… slowly, stiffly, hungover on corn syrup and American wet-dreams, but we are waking.  Women are questioning why they should give birth in hospitals, plugged in and cut open.  Individuals cannot afford to supplement the bloated paychecks of pharmaceutical companies and are turning to acupuncture, aromatherapy and physical activity… diets that are organic and healthy.

It’s not everyone, it is not all at once, but the world is waking up.  Neighbors are pooling resources, strangers are open sourcing ideas and blueprints.  Gardeners are digging deeper into permaculture and sustainability, farmers are seeing the faults of genetically modified seeds, previously indoorsy people are keeping chickens, gardens and bees.  Dads are turning off lights, mothers are making their holiday gifts by hand.  Politicians are pandering to the mass (as well as the industries).

There is a labyrinth of youtube videos, DIYs and how-to instructionals.  From playing piano to building an Earthship, we are waking up.
I grow food, I filter my water, I make my own soap, salves and lip balms.  I patch my own clothing, I can, and freeze meals.  I’ve never had a drivers license or an automobile.  I compost, I recycle, I am self employed, and it’s just taking off.  I gave birth at home, without drugs or doctors.  I raise my own child, with sweet words and caresses, love from my heart, and milk from my breasts… all this I do, but an inner voice calls: “You’re not doing enough.”

I know I’m not idle.  I know I’m not dumb, but the world is spiraling quickly and I’m amongst the privileged few with enough water, with enough food, with internet access, and a spiritual calling too.  How do I co-create a world that is better?  How do I ensure I am providing and serving more than my self,  while truly honoring and sharing my self?

Each day, I hold my self to a higher and higher standard, but often I backslide into laziness, depression and self hatred and pity, only to shake my self off, laugh at my silliness and proceed with fulfilling my purpose.  I have vague ideas of future, built upon my moral convictions of NOW.  I know I will grow.  It’s the only way to go.  The bell cannot be unrung.  I am awake, conscious and clever.

Somehow, the energy crisis will be addressed on a grand scale, either through preemption in  near future, or crisis after crisis the realization of what must be done will be more attractive than the perceived safety of our cocoon of fossil fuel comfort.  What I can do now is write to senators, congresspeople and the bureau of land management, while conserving what I have.

At this moment, I can be aware of my own intent and output in my world.  With each day lived in integrity with my ideals, and the open exchange of ideas,  I am co-creating an environment in which progress can be made.  With each day I lovingly share the world with my child, I am creating a world that will be loved by him.  I can be present in my foresight.  I can be honest in hindsight.  I have failed, and I have lived up to my ideals.  In some cases, surpassed my youthful imagination of what is possible. I am going to allow spirit into my heart, and let it guide me, instead of spinning into intellectual narratives of how messed up the world is. I am young, inspired, intelligent and willing to work.  All else will follow.



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