.
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.

The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.

Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.

His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.

Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.

Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.

After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.

.
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre.  So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.

.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground.  Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon?  Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a ****'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.

.
One dream shall ever die,
Words promised only said,
Two gold rings tossing ayes
By gleems of moon we laid,
So gentle was strike of time,
Cruel night conquering day.
.

.
Adam eyed Eve looking askance,
High in rush of ancient low garden,
Tempted by sun, under all is dance,
Sensate and flesh was torn, bidden.

As stems prickled in moist of garden,
Into dark soils grew blooms of youth,
In rains set free showering new Eden,
The bodies of heaven rose let loosed.

Creation dressed up in their ripeness,
Shouting louder than slithered serpent,
Adam fell drunk under moon of silence,
As Eve laid down a star burst bleeding.

.
Time is teasing along with lush earth so pleasing,
The minutes of our youth are spent in toiled days
And sands are blowing the weld of our sold means,
Foundations of dust, the cries unheard, of the aged.

And then, as dream, you came from the starry skies
Blue and small as the ocean dot, forever fixed—
Reigning over the frozen, revolving moon that lies,
Dimly wakes in your fabled orbit, my fated ellipse.

Now, time tables and splits, renders me to eaves
Undone, my squandered youth was but a sad play
And I am clocked with wind, the geld of my dreams,
Had shiftless hands been more solid than my days.