No more reliable lemon drops in London,
The lemon trees—all gone.
Next will be ginger ale,
The frail root rotted.
The lime trees? Shot.
Some onion-paper men all in a dither
Over freeze-dried pastries preserving
The flavor of sweet cream and butter.
Whoever they are who dig up
Our future cities find feathers
At the museum.
© poem and cover art, 1994
From: Breakfast at the End of Capitalism by Locofo Chaps (Chicago, 2018) — download free PDF here
First published in Poems for a Livable Planet. Fall (1994). p. 3
ABOUT THE POET BY DAY
- The Poet by Day, an information hub serving poets and writers
- The BeZine, founding and managing editor
- Beguine Again, regular contributor
- Second Light Network of Women Poets, professional affiliation
That’s a sound poem, a bit of how lemonade is made from lemons or shall I say lemmings, since it seems in so-called democracies, these days, the People follow each other over the cliff being led by their leaders? In American, they are serving orange lemonade. It has taken all the fight out of the natives. Eventually, they can only afford bread and water.
LikeLiked by 2 people
a host of horrors greet us each day
multitudes of madnesses
economies of scale sing hymns
ailing rotting-on-the-inside riffraff
make holy homemade videos
that go virulently viral in stupefying style
scores bursting at the seams about to crack
en masse we raise voices
This! Life! is astonishing
life on earth
with its variegations in virtue
imperfections impressive in their number
it is good nevertheless this creation
find a statue or painting of god
that’s not a little bit broken
let alone one of us humans
roll across the storm sky
to release, in their fractures,
across swarming humanity’s home
until Hallelujah! a stunning sunset show
LikeLiked by 3 people
Thanks fir joining in Wednesday’s writing prompt.