Field Tending

By Amy Thomson


Construction booms
shake the rooms,
rattling, rumbling, reverberating,
perforating the hour.
Deliberating the ultimate power:
how to slice it just right,
keeping future in sight.
Still learning from the past,
too late to cast
necessary wisdom,
intoxicating system
breeding bees
to make cheese
a tight squeeze
in the schedule,
a sexy tease,
a little hair pull.
Clumps of hair drown the drain
the wicked pain
of lost dreams,
blown away with kites,
a bittersweet sight,
aspartame bite.
Can barely find time to breathe
without choking on guilt.
The Empire we’ve built
starts to wilt.
Time caresses valleys around
Mother’s eyes
regrets disguised
as her children’s tears dried,
refused rides,
became brides,
she tried
her best.
The red giant will still
set in the West,
even after we’ve gone,
The East will bear dawn.


Apocalyptic Activism

Bones tired,
will expired,
now sour,
lack power,
lack movement.
Political dial
broken off,
sent into space
without a trace.
Away with logic,
to hell with peace.
Our planet’s lease
Science predicted
heat waves,
dance raves.
glamour sin.
Lush lips,
stock dips,
Flint sips
a pathetic excuse.
getting hotter.
Women walking
We’re so dumb,
give us some
bad intention.
Cat fight,
a trite sight,
our innocence.
Compete for jobs
not slobs.
Kiss The Man,
not a man.
Grab pussy,
you wussy.
money Trumps
losing hope,
grab the rope.
Pray for end,
let Her send
a quick goodbye,
for this land, I’ll die
so She can sigh,
and wonder,


Good Mourning

By Amy Thomson

Let us mourn the day
the Willows laid down,
down into the ground
to build the new town.

We built on their heads,
our hands are stained red,
now that they’re all dead,
we’re filling with dread.

The stream once crystal,
tranquil and blissful
now wan and wistful,
free-market’s pistol.

Our forests of steel,
shield everything real
our bubble we seal
in order to deal.

“The wolves have dwindled,”
we read on kindles,
“their homes we’ve swindled,”
“we packed their bindles.”

Let us mourn the day
our Mother will burn,
forever we yearn,
but never we learn.





By Amy Thomson


Cirrus elephants
dance in blue.
Green sprinkled toffee
melts down Nevada’s chest.


Night pulls off her
hot, sticky blanket,
Pours glittering, navy
syrup on top.


Outside the neon buzz,
the coyote’s lullaby
sings her to sleep,
somewhere softer.


Quiet dreams float
behind her heavy eyes.
A life of peace, weary from
the infected abscess on her leg.


Oozing tears of girls
stripped of innocence.
Gushing bile
of hungry mites.


Alcohol soaked,
her leg burns with
empty dreams and
wicked sneers.


Infection spreads,
clawing flesh
into flashy
human traps.


Shhh, sleep,
whispers Night.