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Three Poems
by KJ Hannah Greenberg




We've Learned It's Moot


We've learned it's moot to drone like insects

Over subordinates’ appreciation or lack,

Thereof with regard to the “Hippie Era.”


Youngins can’t know Vietnam, Woodstock

Or illegally-sourced marijuana. They’re

Oblivious to the nuances of middies.


They think “free love” is one-night stands,

That beads, froes, plus crazy hair comprise

The difference among contemporary classes.


All along, they forget that social media never

Really brought peace, good will, equality.

That race, gender, and age remain problems.


Today, more than before, posers wish for easy

Rides, seek solutions like unicorns and fairies,

Recoil from walking the highway of justice.




a line, (a short blue one)



Lost Potential after Lambing


Children are especially distrusting

When faced with choices among elderberries,

Blackberries, green hazelnuts, dandelions

Partridgeberries and bands of convicts.


In contrast, living on several continents, developing accordingly,

Brings flame pictures, images of female forms within parameters

Of prayer trances. Additionally, syncredic, private geises teach

Means to upload kaijus, jungle beasts, plus other awful critters.


Many days' loneliness outdistances

The separateness of shore wind walks,

Forced marches, requisite meditations,

Even solo woodland orienteering.


Using borage, to treat lambs’ superficial infections,

Makes temperaments leap between poetry and law,

Lost potentials, cycles spent in vicious waste, maybe

Also mitigatory wrath, grief, harshness, and petrichor.




a line, (a short blue one)



The Mage’s Incomplete Solace


I purr to myself; no one else works clever enough to wrestle silver-fanged beasts,

Alone, during shore walks, combining brine from disparate lands’ asylums.


I sing to myself; no one else demonstrates successfully built connections,

Among tawny dandelion, green-leafed magic, sour enchantments.


I talk to myself; no one else listens with equal terse, attentive charm,

While disassembling possible futures, thistle-like energy, scurvy.


I keep to myself; no one else shares such predisposition toward sharks, eels, lice,

Amidst psychic awareness, astute probing of hinterland buoyancy.


I worry myself; no one else’s consolations stream from capitulums’ sacred cavities,

When strumming perdition for founding citadels, or championing unredeemables.


I shock myself, no one else’s behest brings brands bovine flesh, studied knots,

Among parasomatic links, as well as redirected water and indiscretions.


I deride myself; no one else’s dallying causes thermodynamic angst, ionic rage,

During transforming from maid to crone, morphing from rags to rags.


I despise myself; no on else’s archetype squeezes personal valor, grandmothers mischief

Because rising suns plus daisies, winging geese, young sentries, spiders, yet shiver.



a line, (a blue one)


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