Day 4: 31 in 31 (Poems that is, precursor to Nanowrimo)

This place I learn, was once called Frogpond

Until Mr. Thomson brought the train right through town

No presumption of progress or high ideas of culture then, just crops and sweat and slavery’s shadow.

Then money road in on the railroads back

And changed all that.

Bustling bank managers and lofty tradesman

Dressed their pale wives in diamonds and paid their pennies to hear Blind Willy sing the blues.

But progress took it’s dollars back

as century turned again, freeways failed to follow track.

Main street storefronts stare vacantly at empty sidewalks.

And only the shadows are the same with the harsh demarcation of white and black.

Day 3:31 in 31  Front Porch Epiphany

It started in the west, behind the break of trees

A racous caw of alarm,

“Coming, coming, coming!’

Other corvid voices adding “Closer, closer, closer!”

“Coming! Coming coming!”

“Flee, flee, flee!”

Innocent of cause, I watch and listen.

I cannot hear the engine noise carried on the breeze

until long after the Chikadee aand whipporwhill, the finch and jay

join the siren song.

“Evacuate-ate-ate, Evacuate-ate-ate!”

“Fleeeee we will! Fleeeee we will! Fleeeee we will!”

“Go, go, go; hope, hope, hope”

“Fly fly, why?”

“Not me, not me, not me”

“Shhh,”the mother sparrow says to her late brood, “we stay stay stay.”

“Danger! Danger! Danger!” the murder echoes through its ranks.

Even the donkeys on the next door farm begin a warning bray.

The mockingbird, city born, makes siren sounds as it flit from tree to tree.
Then I hear the engines south of me, and see them come

the metal beasts that eat the trees.

The roads needed clearing, a man a house,

and every pen a page.
I understood the need they met, these ripping, gripping teeth of steel

but never understood before, how those who live there feel.

Day 1: 31in31

The men and women clutch tight to other’s rumored failings,

the straws of a destiny gone wrong, greedily gathered.

The branching differences of vision chopped away,

opinions carved to suit and

Stuccoed with a righteous judgement,

motes of mismade choices in mud smear glue

fortify the icy glass walled houses

Sheltering and unifying fear.

All the voices swirl in moldish mist;

“If you can’t say something nice, come join the fun.”

“Maybe sit a little closer to me,”

“Have you heard about the latest scandal?”

“Did you here what So and so said about them?”

“Politics today…”

“Society today…”

“If it wasn’t for them, I would be…”

“Well if it wasn’t for you, they’d be…”

“If you don’t believe like me, you’re wrong…”

“If your not with us….”

But the chorus of the sun and dandelion heads are calling me to hope

With relief, I slip away.