Post Pastoral

It’d be nice to write poems

about simple pleasures:

Humming birds,



thirsty first kisses.

But the way things

Are going–

                        can’t do it.

Drought chokes the throats of my long lost lovers

And bombs buzz where the bees should be.

The kindly sun-warmed shepherd,

            Tending his flock

Has been made to submit

to a mutton clerk,

            Who coldly keeps the clock.

I’ve no green garden,

no gate to lock—

            Like you,

             I wander the aisles of a store

Picking out the peasant thumbs

from the racks of prunes and plums;

Trying not to kick some unseen

skull across a floor. 

Yet asked to fill a rattling rolling cage with more

and more…

Who could stock such gaping shelves

            With words of light and love?

The world has drained the last coo

            From this dove.


About Joe Ramsey

I'm the keeper of this site, as well as the author who produces (most of) the work that will appear on it.
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