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IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER

the fox pauses

a paw
left in mid air

resting upon
a clump of darkness

the fox listens intently
the countryside listens to the fox's

listening

a stillness falls
upon all
a snail stops mid-wall

nothing moves
the fox's eye glistens
the world holds its breath

the fox trots
as if in a dream
across countryside that's never been

my face reflected
in the diorama
the museum closing for the night
The drive is endless, perilous,
and being recorded for posterity,
because one planet
is no longer enough.

H.P. Lovecraft is at the wheel,
and we're looking at one thing
and not your mother.

That was a Freudian slip,
but not really surprising
since he's also along for the ride.

And when we get there
we'll scavenge for sovereignty
in the orange filter of hope.

Then a flag will mark
our demesne,
a spot defining both
pride & terror,
as it delivers a dose of ambition,
yet, reeks of future tyranny.

Pray our luck runs out along the way
or we run out of gas
or steam
or headway...

Then again, maybe we should
hope for the breast.
I mean best !
Freud's at it again.
Because one planet is no longer enough
He loved to teach...

He loved to teach her...

He loved to teach her abject lessons
      in elevators and on stairwells.


She hated to learn...

She hated to learn from him...

She hated to learn from him the inherent
       danger of buildings.
Nearly 1 in 4 women in the United States have experienced severe physical violence by an intimate partner during their lifetime.
 Nov 2019 Sona Lachina
annh
White nights, grey days,
Phosphorus and gin;
Graffiti-laden pavements,
Diamond rain and paraffin.

Chalk dust reveries,
Aerosols and spit;
Zero-hour freeways,
Magnetic parapets.

City high, city low,
Monoliths in drag;
Silent spaces, dwelling places,
A hoody and a bag.

Freestyle evangelists,
Salvation strikes a pose;
Train tracks, kitchen hacks,
The rapture and the snow.

'I'm laying down, eating snow/My fur is hot, my tongue is cold/On a bed of spider web/I think of how to change myself.'
- Fever Ray, Keep the Streets Empty for Me
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jWFb5z3kUSQ
My home, your home
Come home, our home

Come home my sweet love
Come home tonight

Home
Come home

Home
Our home

Come home my sweet wife
Come home tonight

Loves
Life
Your
Right

You know I needed you here
And its right
You know I want you close
Holding you tight
All night

Come home
Love...
Music is poetry. Erik Satie a poet. The piano is his pen. So listen carefully and interpret this poem in your own way.
 Nov 2019 Sona Lachina
Elena
Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.

See that tree all alone
yet so full?

Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.
 Nov 2019 Sona Lachina
irises
merely
 Nov 2019 Sona Lachina
irises
the morning after a long night of sadness
in which you finally tricked your mind at four a.m. to repress
the deepest thoughts that tangle in your hair

you wake up to find your dreamworld is only that
and your real-world is merely what it is.

the moon will shine again,
so i keep everything tucked in my pillowcase
in hopes i can return again.
is this too confusing?
 Oct 2019 Sona Lachina
L B
House feels damp
in between
seasons of life
where I try to start a fire
Sky tonight was an amethyst fan
on a ruby line
the sun an ember
rolling golden years  
down the Hills of Scranton
to the city's lights
Across the town
toward that bend in the river

a driving dusk
Driving to the Hill section at sunset to pick up milk and eggs.
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