Skip to main content

Community Supported Agriculture

It was Sunday when
I was kidnapped by bees
and taken into the soil,
told to contemplate my cuticle...

Contemplate your cubicle
and tell us what's fair,
Loving the myth of the millionaire
of loving the truth in the air?

Bow down and be low, be among,
be within, be with us,
be in the Earth and love the soil.
Know your food and celebrate.

Celebrate the simple.

Damn the fool. Damn the Chief.
Damn the cool. Damn the thief.
Sieze the power of your palate
savor the taste of your ballot.

Celebrate what is ample
make yourself an example
Love the whole and the real.
Let your neighbor grow your meal.
Labels:

Comments

  1. SandyCarlsonJuly 24, 2011 at 6:52 PM

    Nothing like real, local food. I love summer for that! Great poem, Pat.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Almost Invisible

No outstanding warrants on me I need to commit a crime Because no one knows me Somebody has always done worse Dad never missed knowing I could have done better Five friends at his funeral Never heard of me.  I was the smoke in the censer Shook over his casket Every morning shower, I make plans To change the course of history Every evening home,  I’m shattered Seeking the glue of vodka I can’t sow peace in my garden Without killing seedlings And mutating every myth of life Somewhere between skin and muscle Is the malignant cancer of a lie Somewhere between eye and sole Is the expanse of hope. 
Post a Comment
Read more

Beach Scene

Play with my hair. Pull the world in as close as the last drops of Long Island Sound that slip from your swimsuit down across the back of your thigh. Play with my hair under freckles of laughter, syllables and chirps, that christen us like parades of soap bubbles floating from the abstract crowd. Play with my hair before we play in the surf where we’ll shock parents. We’ll be inappropriate, the way we keep touching. We’ll blast “Youth!” in spite of our age. Play with my hair Our whispers sequester The crowd and claim this blanket As the Nation of Us Our consensus of two Inviolate, immutable and perfect.
1 comment
Read more

New England Season

Our New England season was warned to us. It was rumored in the smoke of August’s barbecue. And slipped from underneath a mulch pile. Our burly season sits in a weave of rag wool It whispers to us in hot cider steam And rides on hay bales behind a tractor. Our flannel season rests on corn field stubble. It stretches before us in shadows over gnarly bark And hides beneath dry fractured crunch. Our crashing season simpers in crumbling leaves It rushes, crushes and crinkles ahead of each step And blushes like pumpkins on your cheek. Our hand holding season snags the breath of a waterfall It wishes for hot chocolate, pie, and turkey And rides on the tail of a red tailed hawk. Our learning season rings its bell in pale grey linoleum It is a wide open bulletin board populated by thumb tacks And leaks out of your new backpack. Our gravestone rubbing season chaps your lips It knits charcoal in feathers with breezes And glistens like sugar and sap. Our Autumn reminds ...
2 comments
Read more