Category: Poetry

The chilly wind blows
leaves hastily fall.
In shattered scarlet
trees, young and old,
shiver.

On Wall Street,
behind bleeding screens,
reddish clumps
become burning fires.

Among branches’ shadowy limbs
woodpeckers retreat
their black beaks blunt.

Hollow eyes stare at the panicked street:
lies tangle in greed climb the twisted charts.

Soon, it all will turn to ash
inhaled by everyone–
wring sweat and blood
from our flesh.

Plowing through billions of seeds,
we hold our breath–
with the coming snow,
what else but plowing?

(published in “Tough Time” when the money doesen’t love us: (Black Moss Press) edited by John B. Lee)