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Three Poems
by KJ Hannah Greenberg



Tomorrow’s Bleak,

Worry-Woven Landscape (Bob and Wheel)


Tomorrow’s bleak,

Worry-woven landscape,

Radiates your mystique.

My troubles mistaken,

We pursue lighter peaks.


Such smiles enhanced,

By your nightfall starshine,

Your ceaseless glance,

Heats with careful kindness,

Lifts me past romance.


Daisy meadows, moist

Woods, too, yield, proclaim

This morning. When evening’s woes

Disperse, I glory your name,

Your warmth. My hope grows.


In return, need

Me. Beauty pets sky’s light

Mingles. Sun heeds

These varying twilight steps,

Grant kisses thereafter. Frees.




a line, (a short blue one)



No More Notice


When self-entitled persons become sufficiently savvy to use aliases with dear cohorts,

Or to employ anthropomorphic protagonists when rounding with non-human pals,

Questions get asked.


Note, pulling back from stroking cute kittens, domesticated alpacas, even most chinchillas,

Resonates as alarming among larvae, worshippers of deltaic altars, plus galaxy junkies.

PoMo remains a limited aesthetic.


Beneath the hills of Kobarid, where spiny mammals’ misdeeds rival those of frat boys,

Luggage weight restrictions, dobros, sanitary pads, and ska saxophone music resonate.

Such laxity bring returns on investments.


“Feminist Prose and Poetics” and “Female Society” conflated with trinket courses

Vis-à-vis curt acceptances literal observations, dairy cow herds, fluffy petards rot.

Only rebuffed academic like those assessments.


Left to popular marches, stratagem line up quinellas, mark both sides of boxes with decals,

Color vehicular trunks, crack gaolers’ spines, play go fish gawk at HUDs, sing off-key.

Fame gamers sunder peers, teach less, worry more.


Girls, gone bad from too many ballet lessons, swivet grand populations, fight brothers,

Get lost on either side of the inspired divide or in diminutive microwaves, use paws

They rely on shared noospheres to pass alone messages.


Chance inclusion means spending excessive time with household objects belongings to fey,

Elbowing passengers, eating watermelon, kissing equerries, staying awake long at noon.

Unctuous others are often willing to count planemoses beyond Neptune.


Folks, whose parents are charity and myopia, don’t tolerate laughter, postpartum moods.

For them, engaging in research invites anticipated results about unanticipated events.

Revenants make good reports, also, enjoy frolicking in giant pods of narwhals.


If only studios featuring kitchenettes could be forgotten in favor of enjoying ships’ chefs,

Cooking privileges, all journey long, coups would go unattempted, babies would sleep.

Eidolons’ dance instruction, on decks under sloppy clouds, would quickly sell out.




a line, (a short blue one)



Home, to Jerusalem


Road signs warble, hum, vibrate,

Near this holiest place, this piercing,

Penetrating, most supernal location,

This gift of harmony with Shamayim,

Containing all ben Adam’s decibels.


Ascending averages one ninety-three,

Eighty-four, maybe thirty kilometers,

Soy fields yielding to limestone hills,

Peaking, coronating confirmed merit,

Crowning this real estate of rareness.


Hashem’s kisses drizzle his children.

Eternally, Tzion connects our reaching,

Committed aspects, assuming hearts.

Stretching mindfully to Tatty, “aliyah”

Forever signifies “home, to Jerusalem.”




a line, (a blue one)


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