It’s poetry month

Time to blow the dust off the gray cells and dive into “poetry” again.

Trigger warning: it ain’t gonna be pretty this year. I’m grumpy.

I’m fearful, tired, downtrodden, pessimistic. I’m fighting against the tide.

Things Fall Apart

We’ve had no real winter. It’s a sign. Perhaps the earth
is cooking now with a billion evil passions,
each human cauldron sending its burning deep
into tree roots. The optimism I’ve tried

to whip up against these boiling passions
is melting now with the ice caps, flooding
under gnarled tree roots -- optimism breeds
fools, patsies, losers. That, at least, is what

the old ghosts tell me, icy breath melting 
the back of my neck. My ancestors are agitated.
Fools, they whisper, losers, craving the classical
dictators, the ruly frenzy of righteous mobs, iron fists

on the backs of hopeful necks. The dead patriarchs 
refuse to rest quiet; they won’t lie down again without 
a fight, the iron fist, an organized frenzy to end
in a cataclysm of epic proportions. 

I try to quiet their apocalyptic voices, each a
cauldron boiling the lava of fear and hatred
into a storm of cataclysmic proportions --
we’ve had no real winter. It’s a sign.

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