In addition to indigenous peoples
of the Americas known as Native Americans
the country of U.S.A. is populated
by those from far away other lands
but now there are many in the U.S.
living illegally on borrowed time
as the Governement wants to deport them all
for an untried unproven crime
and if they do so then who will pick
all the fruit and vegetable crops
when they are gone back to where they're from
as that's where the dollar stops
PICKINGS
I’m not a dwarf or a giant
But the male version of petite
I’m the right size and defiant
And not so easy to defeat
That bitesize word is horrible
But you know, I’m a cannibal
'Bite Size Poem no51' Contest
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
People voted for chaos:
democracy is struggling.
Worldwide ideologies lean far right:
dictators, potentates, and tyrants rule
unconstrained by any semblance of law.
Our youth don't know real war:
nor what their fathers fought for.
Politicians sell fear, packaged as hope,
through accusations and false promises,
till the downtrodden elect their jailers.
Like sheep to a hungry wolf:
weak minds are easy pickings.
I've lived in a bubble of misplaced trust;
out of touch with the anger of our youth,
ignoring the homelessness on our streets.
But bubbles pop over time:
and illusions, get exposed.
Aggressive nations are pushing for war
and allies align, as they've done before;
fueled by pure propaganda and greed.
I hoped I’d never see war:
but, I fear, one is coming.
When the green snout is full
rabbits spill on the lawn.
I worry night and day,
because the stoats and the Red Tails
are at work
even in whelm and nimiety
they hack and harrow.
The young kits are many,
the sun too bright.
Foragers forgo fear,
are palpable and open,
not just
the long-eared nibblers,
the hairs on many scutters
are laid bare,
the sniffers thrive,
are prone to be pounced upon;
their thin pelts all unhidden,
and being many,
and not running,
they are huddled.
If this spill will not ease.
If the grabbers not falter,
the singled-out dither,
the glut not wither,
then the green snake
will climb a way
to the nestlings hutch;
all so easily found
and quickly snatched.
I worry for
the small brown birds,
their mottled shells
still unhatched.
In this gorge and sate;
I fret for all this new life
that has arrived too late.
A blueberry stand in rural Maine
Sold pints and cakes and pies
But after hours, I discovered
Quite a nice surprise.
A money box was left beneath
A price list; it was filled
With coins and bills. We added ours –
Such honesty instilled!
I thought that such a thing would never
Fly where I reside
And yet today I saw a sight
That couldn’t be denied.
A fruit cart in my neighborhood,
Well-stocked, displayed a sign
Announcing it was “Closed for now;”
No berries could be mine.
No cash box, sure, for after all,
Manhattan isn’t Maine,
But all the fruit was there, a fact
I really can’t explain.
Perhaps it’s just a simple truth
That when we’re met with trust,
We’ll like return the favor
And leave no one left to bust.
Went with the kids to the blueberry farm,
Everyone ready to pick.
Armed with a bucket, we wandered the rows
But somehow our luck ran out quick.
For nary a berry on nary a bush,
Except some real tiny and tart.
The kids pulled a few, they went plunk in the pail;
We were off to a not-so-great start.
The season is ending this weekend, we heard;
I guess that explains our dumb luck.
We'll settle for strawberries that, in the store,
We managed, when shopping, to pluck.
A waning moon hangs
under an obsidian sky
as I walk through a
the dark scrub forest
past stumps of giants
felled long ago.
The river‘s low
few salmon in the pools
and none flounder
on the gravel banks.
Eagles and ravens
are not to be seen
though the signs say
bears have been
sighted.
Once this river sustained
an autumn feast but
now pickings
are pretty
slim.
Common
groundsel of
grass and purslane-
a winter's diet ,much
the same
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