fed four times each day
starting after the milk cows
and the sun’s rising
the chickens cluck and follow
either nagging or thanking
grain left behind by horses
scraps from the kitchen table
greens from the garden’s bounty
all to fatten them
she calls them by name
knowing there will come a time
to tell them good-bye
(after the undated sketch, “Peasant Girl Feeding Chickens,” by Jean Baptiste Camille Corot)
I have a small flock of chickens that are fun and full of sass
they also love destroying all of my grass
I love the way they run to greet me clucking and scratching with their feet
but all they really care about is what I am bringing them for a treat
they love to peck at painted toes and hands that gather eggs out of their nest
though they drive me crazy their fresh eggs are the best
Inspired by the quote, “The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them.”
The ballot, a thin sheet held aloft, a supposed symbol of power, but the power feels distant, a mirage shimmering in the heat. Every few years, the ritual unfolds: representatives presented, polished smiles plastered across their faces. They speak of change, of progress, their voices dripping with promises that seem to evaporate the moment the final vote is cast.
But beneath the surface, a disquiet persists. The system, a web of interconnected interests, remains resolutely unchanged. The power brokers whisper, their influence a subtle force that shapes the very air people breathe. Change, if it comes at all, arrives in the form of crumbs tossed from a lavish table, a hollow victory that leaves a bitter aftertaste. Is this all there is? Another face, another name, but the game continues, the rules stacked against those who yearn for something more.
Yet, a tremor begins to rise, a discontented murmur echoing through the night. It’s a yearning for a different path, a hunger for a future not dictated by the ballot box alone. This disquiet speaks of a growing consciousness, a recognition that the status quo cannot, will not, endure. The oppressed, once resigned, begin to find their voices, their collective roar amplified by a shared sense of injustice.
a brown
recluse must
have been sleeping
in my overalls, which
hang each evening,
dusty, in the wood shop.
got me on the knee.
been down now for a week,
laid up with my leg up,
lymph node in my groin
swollen like an onion.
what i could have sworn,
at first, was just an
ingrown hair, a pimple
to be squeezed, now
has necrotized
into an open
oozing
sore,
ugly.
Most days
I don’t even think
about breathing
It comes naturally
and is just
a biological function
But there are days
where pain and circumstances
make me forget
I forget how to
breathe in and out
and find myself dizzy
Dizzy with the need
for the most basic
life sustaining oxygen
On those days
I have to concentrate
on breathing in and out
I don’t think that
I will ever take breathing
for granted again
And I pray that one day
life calms down enough
that it becomes natural again
in the motionless night
under a canopy of stars
blinking fireflies await
the couple’s unfolding story
From my lonely window I see, below
Glorious Creation from west to east
The Lord’s great kindness spread out like a feast
To sustain the faithful and let us grow
‘til He keeps a promise made long ago
To cast out the vile who live like the beasts
To dethrone the pagan’s unholy priests
While saving, us, pure of body and soul
I see the mare with foal, ewe with her lamb
My arms are empty and always shall be
Life’s great miracle I will never see
For Mother did find me, and here I am
Waiting in paradise to be set free
From this mortal body which keeps tempting me
Robinsong bubbles into dawn’s
ratatouille of wren and rooster,
cuckoo and crow. Towhee trills
and titmouse’s pee-ter simmer
with woodpecker’s drilling
till dream finds its waning.
