Alphabet City

Am I too late to till the land,
to fill the furrows with life-giving grain,
tubers to store to be eaten in Winter,
gourds to nourish us through to Spring,
in Summer I will allow the long beans to dry,
take time in Autumn to cry over what used to be,
hand pump my well without electricity,
rue the abundance of wood too wet to kindle,
save for old papers' headlines decrying the outrage, 
before the brightest light came, ere the outage,
outside but more so within, empty vessels, 
hollowed - nay hallowed - vassals, 
ships set sail, round-trip to nowhere

Am I too late to take my own life
into my own hands?

cc: Michael 2022

,

originally posted August 9, 2018

thin altitude
high in eastern europe
atop caucasus peaks
abundant cultivars
plenty of plums
stone fruits
what the italians call cocomilia
we survive on these plus
native grain and wild yeast
until the years are passed

cc: Michael 2022, Chagall 2018

The People cannot, must not, 
tolerate yet another cleansing by the scrub-brush of 
a punk fuckhead, I'd rather go up in a puff, 
die trying, than sit around atop pious pretense

Give it to me!
I'll press the button

cc: Chagall 2022

I do not feel, have no sense of
the plight of each the many, instead
I am overwhelmed by the 
singular sorrow of we as one

cc: Chagall 2022

micro-reactions,
aggressive and other,
are what We are

it's the macro
should concern 
You more

cc: Chagall, Michael 2022

These days I live for the light of the moon,
shun the rays of the day, find myself waning, 
though you'll think me waxing here near-
philosophic, removed from the poetic
arrhythmia I stutter, forgive me for I know not
what I do, in the full glory of the round orbs
all around us but not about us, where there is
no horizon to rise above, no sun would dare 
frequent this occasion, this milieu, this misery
deserves nothing less than the drone of 
the pavan to which they dance, a macabre step,
one-and-two-and...tread upon for vantage,
to better see how one is outdone in the 
creative of evil, each night their will be done, 
on city streets, in foreign fields, behind doors
wide open, stick their tongues out at the blind, 
scream to the deaf to put words into the mouths of mutes, 
never to touch the sensitive, except with fire

In the light of the moon that I love, is a stark gray warmth 
amid deep blue, I pray for perpetual night, for with 
it comes unbridled hope, astride the unfulfilled outcome, 
not knowing whether breaks the day

cc: Michael, Chagall 2022

I
Love is somewhere between 
sorrow and sympathy

II
Five is the new 20

cc: Chagall, Michael 2022

There were just so many verses
until there was none

cc: Chagall, Michael 2022

Train rides once through wooded lands
left me breathless to see God's wonder;
straddled between cars now,
crisp, cold air
begs peace - Amen

please see David ben Alexander's site for more on this poetic form

cc: Michael 2022