Your Blissful Autumn Is Not Mine (DHR)
I enter your poem with silent steps
and in so doing have some regrets.
You boast about your autumn,
of how the leaves dance like a flame and
like golden butterflies fall to the ground.
You hail your merry harvest of pumpkin, nut and berry,
how plentiful and ripe this year’s crop is.
But in my world malevolence pierced a finger
through the fibre of heaven and pointed it at us.
You cannot alter a capricious sun or tame storms and floods.
The trickery of this world may confuse you at times
as to why autumn has forgotten us and never plans a visit.
Instead, the season gifted us an empty hand with malice.
Our scattered seeds only succeed in growing weeds,
never a harvest of wheat to make a loaf of bread.
Don’t be fooled by their bloated tums
because they’re full of hunger, not with food.
When there’s no food how can I share,
how can I give when there’s nothing there?
As long as life cares to stay with us we will forbear
and apportion fairly whatever measly aid we get.
If it be so, then so be it, today, tomorrow and forever.
The moon shines on us too, dark lives do matter,
so please save your metaphors and flippant Je t’adores,
and your similes when my children starve in front of me.
Call it autumn or what you please,
as leaves die in yours, so my children die in mine
In such a world what need for poetry?
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