poetry

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.

 

 

poetry

Nevada

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.