Spring and summer, they come and go.
Then it’s the hell that waits for me below.
An arm? A leg? Which part is scheduled for torture?
Fair Demeter, where are you? Are you truly my mother?
The pomegranate seeds were bitter pills.
Supposedly something that would cure my ills.
But there’s a side effect for every cure,
and I know now I cannot endure
the months-long torture of a winter in hell.
And my future fate no seer can tell.

I enjoy these brief respites.
I live now for my pleasant visits
to sunny days and strawberries;
away from my torment, the dogs and ferries.

Deliver me, with magic spell,
with gliding bow and ringing bell,
from this dark and dreary mood so fell.

The clock counts its minutes and its hours;
we obey its rhythmic, ordered powers
in the prisons of our shining towers.

The clock is but an artifice
from a tyrant’s workshop’s abyss.
Time was made for more than this.

Count not the hours, but the beat,
tap it with your dancing feet,
clap it, sing it, in the street.

A flute of bone was made before
the timecard and the clock kept score.
Our forbears knew what time was for.

Don’t nobody mess with Snow White.
I’m the Queen of the ‘hood, don’t give me a fight.
I’ve got Grumpy and his Kalshnikov.
Sneezy and his crew did the bank job.
***** meets the plane coming in at JFK,
with its cargo of smack, to bag and weigh.
Sleepy got busted, he’s doing time--
but he ain’t no snitch, so we’ll all be fine.
Happy’s my honey, as long as I got money--
I feed him some coke and he keeps my mood sunny.
Bashful’s the lookout, he stands on the corner.
Doc sews them up, saves them from the coroner.
I ain’t got no evil stepmother,
and if you mess with my crew you’re a stupid *******.

I’m a lone gunslinger
with a broken trigger finger.
I’m an old firefighter
with a gas can and a lighter.
I’m a spy undercover
with a double agent lover.
I’m the blind preacher
who has Satan for a teacher.
I’m the hangman
with a noose around my neck.
I’m the ship’s cat,
sunbathing on the deck.
The apocalypse is here
and we’re all going to heck.

The elixir was mixed.
The potion had been poured.
The candles were all burning.
Over the Book of Spells, I’d pored.
I handed you the goblet--
my commandment you ignored.
I intoned the incantation--
you sat and just looked bored.
I looked into the crystal ball
and told you of your fortune.
You disagreed—but how is this?
Of the two of us there’s only one
who is the sorceress.
Why did I paint the pentagram
and summon all the spirits?
I’ll have you know I’ll still be charging
my fee for all your visits.

Your time is now over.
Your death will be slow,
and cruel.
A vulture picks
at the corpse of a fool.

When greed is worshipped,
all compassion fails.
Dogs eat dogs
and chase their own tails.

No one reads books.
No one understands law.
Might becomes right
and all succumb to their deepest flaw.

**** is entertainment,
and fantasy, addiction.
Degradation is beauty,
and cruelty, conviction.

The sun is now setting
on the city dying
Darkness begins
under a red moon rising

Take my hand, as I walk this path--
guide me on this rocky road.
Stay with me until the end--
help me carry this heavy load.

Teach me joy and ecstasy;
be my love and inspiration.
Light my fire and set me free;
make each day a celebration.

Give me hope and make me see
how to be that which I aspire to be.
All have flaws that make us human
and the path before us is uncertain,

but whatever crosses I may bear
they are lighter knowing you are there.

You're my whiskey sour,
my gin and tonic.
You've got the power
to make me crazy
for you.
Slurring my words,
I can't speak.
I'm feeling high;
no longer blue.
I'm walking funny;
I'm falling for you.
Falling down
that rabbit hole.
Take my broken pieces;
make me whole.
I'll take the hangover;
you're my aspirin, too.
****-faced drunk;
drunk with love for you.

Swaying, to an electronic beat.
Hallucinogenic mushroom treat.
Blissed out youth in easy grace,
dancing in a limbic space
in their comfy border town--
have no idea what’s going down.

But there will always be disorder
if you choose to paint Hell’s border
while you live on the other side--
a created,  artificial divide.
Heaven and Hell will soon collide.

In the last pandemic,
I fell in love with a sick person.
We didn’t stay 6 feet apart.
I pressed my head on his chest
and listened to his beating heart.
We shared our limbs and our breath,
and there was only one part
of him that threatened me with death.
I miss the days when we knew
what risks we were taking.
But we still  measure love that’s true
by what we are willing
to do and to not do.

Some say the world will end in fire;
some say in rain.
I’ve seen the world end
again and again.
I’ve heard the bell toll
and the raven talk.
I’ve walked to the end of the pier
and seen the boat crashed up on the rock.
But each time I arise,
I awake to face the dawn.
Because there’s always one more job to do,
while I whistle one more song.

Buzz
From HortiDaily: "In a few countries, bumblebees are not available and manual pollination must be used... It pays to remember.. that without proper pollination a tomato plant will not produce premium fruit.
When tomato plants are pollinated manually, the best method is by using electric bees. These are battery operated vibrators. Staff must vibrate every plant in the glasshouse three times per week "

Tomatoes won’t ripen right
without pollination.
It helps to have a bumblebee
to give that good vibration.
But if you lack the bumble,
there’s another way, you see:
Your plants all can be pollinated
manually.
You will need to use some labor,
and wield a good *******--
the electric bee will soon become
your best-loved pollinator.
Your fruit is premium
and you’ll want to keep its savor.

Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands,  late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery,  presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.

Let me show you the latest trends.
White, white and white.
White is the beginning, and the end.
We’ll mix it up with ecru,
eggshell, ivory,
some cream, or light beige,
perhaps a  grey on pearl tapestry.
Color’s so last decade,
and black so last year.
White is what’s now and what’s here.
I know some good painters–
the price won’t be too dear.
Throw out your carpeting,
and your upholstery.
I’ll set you up with my people–
of course it’s not free.

Your artwork must go.
Just throw it all out
or donate to Goodwill.
And your Black Lab as well.
Get two white Toy Poodles;
everyone will know you’ve got oodles
of money. Because you’re hip to the latest trends.
And we’re sure it will impress your friends.

I type my poems in Microsoft Word,
Which capitalizes when I don’t want it to.
Microsoft capitalizes on its digital monopoly.
Monopoly is a board game about capitalism
that I played as a child with tokens and play money.
But I spend real money on Microsoft Word.
I don’t want capitalism to rule my world.
My world needs rules. Such as, the writer decides when to capitalize.
Capitalizing Word makes it a brand name.
A brand name is copyrighted, as are my poems.
But do  I own the copyright to my poems in Microsoft Word?
Word has it that if Monsanto seeds blow onto your farm,
the plants they become belong  to Monsanto.
Word.

When the dark spell was broken I began my journey;
I walked to the top of the hill.
I sang a song, along with the spotted towhee.
I saw the world below me and I strengthened my will.

I built my house in the shelter of the deep green valley,
with brick and stone, and a deep blue pool.
Under the stately pine and the swaying palm tree--
I swore to follow no man’s, but my own one rule.

A butterfly flew into my house one morn
and came to rest on my sleeping lips.
Then flew away–you know they don’t live long--
I dreamed a dream of an eternal kiss.

I awoke to find that my guardian angel
was sitting by my bed, singing his song.
“Don’t worry” he said, “I will never leave you.”
“I believe you.” I smiled. But we could both be wrong.

It’s hard for me to listen to your sorrow and pain
because it reminds me once more and again
of the place far away that I used to know,
the place to which never again can I go

Your story of how the neighborhood you  knew
was burned to the ground; there was nothing you could do
reminds me of how, when I when I turn on the news,
I see starving babies, dead bodies, but no ambulance crew

A coastline of rubble, grey rocks and black smoke
I did what I could, but there is no more hope.
I know it’s my job and the least I can do
to do what I can, to maybe help you.

What you survived was not war but a fire
And the future you face isn’t nearly so dire
But the words that you use and the stories you tell
Reminds me of those murderers who create  living hell

I asked you to tell your story.
But you lied--
you closed the door on me.

Betrayed  in younger years,
your pain never faded.
It petrified, into a rock wall
high and sheer.

I can turn the key slowly,
unlocking the mystery  
of how old wounds still sting, but,
it’s no quick release from misery.

You found relief
in an inanimate remedy.
Or was it the chance of death you took
that entranced you,
a needle roulette, not Russian,
but just as deadly?

I cried
when I heard you had died
in your ecstatic reverie.
And the crimes that had been
perpetrated against you
were upgraded by Fate
from neglect to homicide.