Children

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[Image- painting – by Robbin T Milne – with permission]

Children

No matter how tall the leaves of grass grow,
the snow will fall again on the field.
The rabbits are running now,
nettles feasting on sunshine,
and the bees are minding their own business,
somewhere else.

No matter my friend has lost his friend,
there will be friends again.
There is a cancer in the fields,
long shadows over hedgerows,
birds I cannot name sing without melody,
and life growing underfoot.

How are the children now? Who are the authorities?
Are there any youngsters without tears flowing,
without tears repressed, stifled?
There are shards on the road, and dust,
buttercups and dock leaves,
foxgloves, and infants on the roads.

An iron gate opens,
an iron gate shuts,
a horse looking for attention,
a gray standing still,
maybe there are fresh eggs.
Why were the children born?

There is horseshit everywhere I look
Clean it up, someone – I’ve said enough.
God bless America,
The horses have bolted,
who’s in charge here?
The leaves of grass are growing,

whether we like it or not.

 All is not yet Lost

The white man with the toothache complained

“The death of truth”
“The demise of fact”

as if One Truth ever lived.

He wore red hair,

“Subjective trumps objective”
“Trust lost in slipstreams”

as if post- modern chatter
arose blind from ignorance

and there was the matter of his nonpliant feet.

“Authorities pushed aside”
“Authors born at every corner”

and no more news swallowed kosher,
we’ve seen gods sit on cracked toilets.

The white man’s ears were bent

“Let us respect disrespectors,
honour the heralds of doubt.
smash panes of glass with Apps and axe,
shatter the gorgon’s mask,
inhale medicine of liberation,
assassinate a holy trinity,
mend faith in next generation
of wordsmiths, dentists, and fools.”

The red man cried.