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Tuesday, April 6, 2021



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



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