About plants’ pesticide loads,
they are silent.
About lectins’ gut havoc,
they are quiet.
About oxalates’ kidney stones,
they are muzzled.
About nutrient deficiencies,
they are still.

About monocrop massacres,
they are silent.
About poison-drenched fields,
they are quiet.
About harvester bloodbaths,
they are muzzled.
About the hypocrisy,
they are still.

    But whispers rise, a rustling breeze,
    A crack in silence, if you please.
    The seeds of doubt, now sown and deep,
    May stir the slumber, wake from sleep.
    For truth, though hushed, will find its way,
    To bloom in light, another day.

    And so it goes, the cycle spins,
    The blinders on, where truth begins.
    They’ll sip their smoothies, green and bright,
    Ignoring shadows, shunning light.
    The silence reigns, a hollow sound,
    Where reason’s lost, and myths abound.

    Break the quiet, speak the name,
    Of hidden costs, and shadowed shame.
    Demand the answers, clear and bold,
    Let truth be known, let stories told.
    For silence feeds the hollow lie,
    And justice sleeps, while shadows fly.

    The fields remain, a painted scene,
    Where secrets sleep, and truths convene.
    A silent witness, earth and sky,
    To what is lost, as seasons fly.
    And in the stillness, one can hear,
    The echo of what they hold dear.

    And so they feast, with pious grace,
    On poisoned bounty, time and space.
    They’ll pat their bellies, green and full,
    And preach of virtue, strong of pull.
    The silence thrives, a verdant shroud,
    A self-made tomb, within the crowd.

The whispers fade, a muted plea,
A truth too raw for eyes to see.
The seeds they sow, in furrows deep,
Reap death in heaps where shadows creep.
For lies, though veiled, will crack and bleed,
A harvest grim, their righteous creed.
The cycle turns, a grinding wheel,
Beneath the plow, the voiceless squeal.
They gulp their kale, so pure, so grand,
While blood and bones enrich the land.
The silence cloaks a brutal cost,
A paradise where life is lost.
Break the hush, unveil the toll,
Of shattered lives beneath the soul.
Demand the count, the hidden slain,
The fields awash in mute refrain.
For silence guards their fragile throne,
A myth upheld by flesh and bone.
The earth stands scarred, a muted cry,
A witness to the grand deceit they ply.
The rabbits torn, the sparrows shred,
Fuel the green they smugly spread.
And in the quiet, truth resounds,
A slaughter vast, where guilt abounds.
They feast with pride, their banners high,
On crops that **** beneath the sky.
They stroke their egos, pure and lean,
Ignoring graves beneath the green.
The stillness reigns, a hollow boast,
A creed that feeds on silent ghosts.

I've got a pair.          
I keep 'em in my underwear:
Two eggs in a nest of hair.    

A farmer from Farmington sowed
His hectares with freckle of toad.  
When asked what would sprout
He hadn’t a doubt
Of harvesting doughnuts à la mode.

I hold the tool. I am the blade. I drive
myself into the fertile ground. I dig
potatoes out. They were buried alive,
but in darkness they thrive. Now the old pig
will feast. When he grows fat I will slay him
to feed me and kin. I don't like killing
but when necessary it's not a sin.
I shall live another year, God willing.
I have long been on the land. I am old
but my sun is not yet setting in the
sky. When I was a child I was told once by
my father you become earth when you die.
If so, I hope my children carve my chest
with blade. I hope I'll yield a fruitful harvest.

if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
                     of the miracle of
                           this Spring deluge
                                unfurling forth                
                            from deep within  
                        the crusty dermis
          of this sublunar territory:
          hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
          intermingling their hues
          of mauve and lilacs,
                              as well as the color of sky
                               blooms of the succulents
                    popping open
                    in celebratory dance
                                   in wild fuschia
                                sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
          hollyhocks of magenta,
           veils of bougainvellia, too
                    sweetpea clusters
             curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove

And I feel like a goddess
              of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
         I cup the buds of blooms,
                                      of nectar
to inseminate my dark
       allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
         the atoms
of  new
               start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit