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Tuesday, April 6, 2021

Voice

 

I’m searching for my voice, listen…is it here?

 

Mine is a voice of prosody, though sometimes of verse

           

It has rhythm that often falters, skipping, out of time

 

It meanders like a cat, its tail waving

           

I have seen my voice in print, I hope it sounds like me

 

I am looking for it here, it might be lying in a notebook

           

or a scrap of paper, a random scribble on a page




Thursday, April 1, 2021

Farm

 

What does it mean to be a farmer anymore?

Who owns that title?

 

Is it the…

 

Landlord-farmer, floating above the loamy-green

Detached from the earth

 

The farmer who does not plant or work in the soil

Absent from the field

 

Tractors driven by satellite, the spring plantings

Artificial stars

 

Who is the farmer? The landlord or the field-hand

The sewer, reaper

 

Crawling down the rows, fingers pressed into the dirt

Seeds and prayers and hope

 

Is she the farmer; is he? The unnamed hireling

Toiling in the sun

 

Sweat dripping from the brow, laborers watering

Nameless boys and girls

 

People without a claim, or recourse to the law

Dreamers without land