The wind picks up grains of sand,
Lets them dance
For a while
And idly watches them fall
To the ground
While greys and dank blues
Flow in the sky.
The sand watches too.
She keeps her shoulder to the wheel
And toils on
Through the unrest
Little regard for those lying, discarded, in her wake
As if they were ants.
The ants toil on too.
None who try
Can stop the Juggernaut.
But if they looked away
Would it choke, shrivel and die?
I saw her work
The coal stove red
Sweat pouring from her face
She wiped her forehead
On her apron
Turning again
To the boiling apples
Apples fresh from the trees
In the field
Up from our house
How their appearance
Has changed
From the morning
A No. 2 washtub
Filled with water
The fruit floating
I reached in
Grabbing a red one
Spinning a knife
Directly under the peel
Ribbons of covering
Extending between my knees
Finally falling
Into a bucket
A dessert for the hogs
I spun the winesap
In my hands
Expertly slicing
Separating the meat
From the core
Filling the pan
Carrying it to Mother
She had put the fruit
In a ball jar
Sealing it
Setting it aside
Dumping the new white slices
In the canning pot
Beginning the process again
How good they would be
In the winter
When fresh fruit
Went with the falling leaves
Fried pies
In the iron skillet
The cans carefully placed
On the shelves
In the closet
Among the quarts
Tomatoes, beans, peas, peaches
Strawberry, peach and plum jellies
A perfect garnish
For a cathead biscuit
On a cold winter morning
It should be a privilege to steer the ‘great’ ship,
not freewill to pillage and sell and betray.
The spoon of the privileged scoops only to gain,
like pirates they strip all our assets away
They kill off our lifeline: protection and health
and drown out the warning of social destruct.
Their privatisation is pleasing their greed,
so now we’re in need of a social erupt
‘Cause rats in battalions slay silver-spooned
stallions and now it is our time to rise!
We’ll bring down these fat cats, and make right their
wrong acts; together, we will turn the tide.
Enslaved by systemic poisonous feed,
ensuring the rats can’t get near the elite.
In black, tax-payed limos they deal for the few
as globalised greed eats up homes on our street
They just keep on pushing the unjust divide
and burn all our bridges so riches can thrive.
While building their walls to keep out the reaper,
the rats keep on racing but now we must rise
‘Cause rats in battalions slay silver-spooned
stallions and now it is our time to rise!
We’ll bring down these fat cats, and make right their
wrong acts; together, we will turn the tide.
Deceit and deception the soil for their seed
but rats cannot ask or reap what they sow:
a harvest to feed their insatiable want.
They twist at the truth to protect all they grow
The artery to the heart of corruption
and we need to block their unjustly flow…
They sell plastic promise; the price is neglect.
We must ensure that it’s their time to go.
So rise rats, rise!
More at https://www.facebook.com/1289Dave/.
The burning and stinging
is excruciating
just before fresh injections.
But, they’ve chiselled a new face
out of the battle-scarred
‘Picture Of Dorian Grey’
that crawled from the wreckage
and ruin
of three Armada divorces,
which would have slain a woman
with half her constitution,
twice over.
Her soul’s on autopilot
as the medication hums and purrs,
mists and fogs
and the sickness drifts and sways.
She pricks her mind awake,
momentarily,
by counting monthly bank statements
from memory.
Each step away
from that childhood dungaree farm
of hand-me-downs
and ne’er quite enough to go ‘round,
forged her spirits
by trial and error,
hard-earned success,
the thrill of the kill
and the giddying high
of outmanoeuvring defeat.
She now needs a
body to match her ambitions…
it’s practical as well as vanity.
She’s forgotten that it’s the little things
which eventually make up the big
whilst at the very same time
unwittingly augmenting
the emptiness inside
to a size and mass too great to ever deplete.
More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Don’t chain me
to rhyme or metrical
expectations, let
words fall
where they
may
This is not a problem
but process
statement
stacked
One of play because
if adults can’t play
with words, well then
Where can they play?
All the monsters
We ever made
Never really fade
They abide
They hide inside
Always steady
Always ready
Always stalking
Always mocking
Haunting
Taunting
They always follow
Ready to swallow
Us whole
It’s the role
They play
They stay
That way.
there is retirement
and then there’s
chronic disease
a long sometimes short-
lived list of amusement
park rides
the adult rides
the hair raising
white knuckle
you must be
>this afflicted< to ride this ride rides a scurry to keep on keep positive keep active busy bees be busy bees writing–excellent stress reliever I’m told, keep it up you’re doing great come back in 6 months my 80-something recently divorced mother weepy says she’s lonely her children don’t come around she’s still hobbling from hip replacement but the cane is conspicuously absent she plodded past retirement age now has too much space to wallow and weep she has a long list the windows and screens and curtains need washed I share a lunch with her be a good daughter a busy bee riding the loop-de-loop
More at https://wlc-wlcblog.blogspot.com/.
Her bottom lip drags
She throws the left leg
Like a fisherman casting
Pulling the right behind
A labored cadence
She is determined
To take by herself
I walk slowly behind her
Ready to catch any misstep
Or weakness of strength
Hers is a persistence
A yearning for self-reliance
The effort drenching
Her blouse with perspiration
There is within me
A cocktail of concern
A feeling of unease
That someone so vital
Can be made so weak
She struggles to talk
Possibly the damage
To the brain
Has dammed thoughts
Familiar words
That will not come
But in their place
Pour irregular emotions
That startle me at times
I see before me
The weakness of flesh
That dampens will
Both she and I
Are reluctant to accept
This is the way
It must be
Angst is my undershirt
Tenderness is for chumps
You can have the X
No O though
Suffer in silence
You know I love you
This isn’t grade school though
Do the math
Vacation was benign
NYC brings it home
Noisy, rude and violent
Cluster
Yeah
A tree, the color of ash, root system
like the humped back of a massive
slow-moving creature, decorating
a small circle of sidewalk, a space
at the bottom large enough to hide
a baby basket inside
Beyond, the truck parked, the shop
opening, a fresh layer of dogwood
blossoms and a campus bell ringing
but no one is taking notes right now
People stand idle in early morning
circles as if their bones are rustling
breaking away the ice of hibernation
many of their fellows still hidden
beneath the cloth of warm sheets.
More at https://jddehartfeaturepoems.blogspot.com.