I love the light this time of day
The way the raindrops dance and play
The gentle shadows on your face
The way the darkness leaves in haste

I love the light this time of day
The flowers' colors on display
And birds like rockets soar so high
And yet I see them in the sky

I love the light this time of day
The pure eclectic gamma rays
Saturn, Mars in strongest bond
A sweet guitar now plays along

I love the light for it is there
Thank you sun for being near
Unto my arms, my face, each day
The gentle rays kiss fear away

The horseman rides.
He rides through valleys of smoke and hills of shadow.
He rides through empty cities of gray concrete and twisted metal.
He rides into the barren plains until they are no longer barren and suddenly, life is all around him.
He rides, onwards, onwards, towards a small town nestled between a stand of pines
And the sea.
The dunes are windswept and worn away.
The plants hold them down against the sea.
In the town, the houses are small and storm-battered, storm-battened.
The people are tanned with weathered hands.
The horseman rides through the town, but no one sees him pass.
The hooves of his great, black horse do not stir the fine layer of sand that coats the cobbled streets.
The horseman rides, and he watches.
He watches a child play just outside of her mother's reach.
He watches a young girl collect shells in her blouse at the seaside.

saltwater is sometimes
the only safe place to hide,
sunken under miles of ocean,
hiding between the corals and
schools of zebra-striped fish.
i whisper your name again
and again like a prayer
but there’s never any response.
all i hear is the echo
of lovers who drowned.
i can’t build stepping stones
across the Atlantic
but i could pretend you’re
sitting next to me beside the
seaweed.
the shadows of my feet
kick up clouds of sand
from the ocean floor.
i feel sorry
for the salty creatures
who watch me from the abyss
in the same way that
i feel sorry for people
who have never seen
the world from above,
when the cities become toys
for the clouds to toss around,
and the cars and the people
vanish as if they never existed
at all. it’s the same way in reverse
underwater, the world lifts or maybe
you fall, there’s no air to breathe,

Dear America,
I have lived here most of my life,
Watching from the comfort of home,
Listening to you speak over the radio of our old Volvo's stereo, 
Hearing things I wish I had never heard.
When I was younger,
I never paid attention.
I never listened
Or watched
Or read,
Back then I wasn't ashamed of you.
Now I turn away,
Scared to look back,
Scared to turn the radio on.
Why do you not learn,
America?
You are my home.
You are home to 328.2 million,
America.
You are supposed to be a dream,
One that so many seek,
And when they do find it,
You push them down and tear them apart.
When I was young I believed America was an amazing place to be.
But when I see
Innocent lives trampled in the wake of fear,
When I say to you,
When will it be enough?
6 million was enough.
It was way too many.
Covid does exist.
Dont be stupid.

Little ideas.
When I draw, I draw ideas that pop into my head.
Little ideas.
They become pictures.
These little ideas become big things.
Calvin and Hobbes started out as a little idea.
Now, it’s one of the most popular comic strips ever.
Skateboarding began as a little idea.
And now it’s an Olympic sport.
Heck, even energy was once a little idea.
Then Edison invented the lightbulb.
Every manmade item on Earth started out as a little idea.
Scientific theories were once little ideas.
Like, ‘Maybe the Earth is round.’
Or ‘Maybe we revolve around the sun not vice versa.’.
Or ‘The Earth is heating up. Maybe it's because of the gas we’re putting into the atmosphere.'
Most big things start out as little ideas.
- Written by Liam Wood

At three o'clock he picked me up from school.
The quiet seeped through the radio,
defining his breathing,
breathing, like before you cry,
like he was on the edge of himself,
of his self control,
because he couldn't cry.
I had asked him what was wrong,
and he answered in a stuttering, red burst.
He said that there was a riot
a mob
a coup.
On the radio they call them protesters,
but I knew.
Protesters don't carry guns.
protesters don't hide bombs in buildings.
protesters don't use teargas.
At home we watched grimly 
as a mob of ugly 
red-faced apes, waving flags 
and wearing red hats and military uniforms
broke windows.
And watched as police officers
stood by, watching,
and opened doors,
and gave out bottles of water.
How could this be?
That when peaceful BLM protesters
were shot and tear-gassed

Cool dark air whispers past
my cheeks, chilling them.
As I look up into the night sky 
I see no stars, no moon.
Clouds blot out all light
except the occasional headlights
that crest the hills before
and behind me, shining on the 
telephone wires above.
As I jog down this tree-lined road
I glance down at the barely visible
cracks in the pavement.
I pass farms with cows dozing silently
in the pastures, or watching me from their barns
with sleepy confusion written across their faces.
A truck is passing me
as I start down a gently sloping hill
when out of nowhere
two long-legged deer jump out
in front of its headlights.
The truck slows down
as the deer leap and bound
to the other side of the road
disappearing over the barbed fence
of an empty cow pasture.
The truck picks up speed and
putters off into the night.
I turn back to the pasture,