Poems
by KJ Hannah
Greenberg
New England Woodland Garden
Small hedgehogs’ broken quills evidence the fact of feline busybodies.
Nigh, grasshoppers, crickets, besides iridescent beetles, assume liberties
With my new lettuce, flowering tomatoes, and aging peas. Mere meters
Away, a groundhog pretends not to be snuffling in the leaf mould of my
Cold compost pile, else digging toward its assembly of obliging worms.
Mass marketed hearts, plus heirlooms, alike, fare poorly here, where
Sunshine’s less common than brambles, violets, bluebells, also skunk
Cabbage. Hungry deer, further, freely appraise this buffet which isn’t
Ordinary trilliums or toothwort. Ants, mice, chipmunks, meanwhile,
Help themselves to seeds barely burst from their shells, not sprouted.
Back indoors, among footnotes, quotes from primary sources, midst
Other dreary remnants flagging my graduate student brain, I cogitate
On woodlands, surrounding boscages, coppices filled with red maple,
Balsam poplar, white cedar, paper birch, likewise pine, where scarce
Strung rows of beans, carrots, turnips realize maturity, kitchen tables.
Rather, it’s best to keep to baking pumpkin muffins in frosty seasons,
To clearing walks by shoveling, to waiting for snowplows, to praising
Dates above freezing. It’s September’s potages, not March’s radishes
That round the local seasons. Car batteries, cords of firewood, as well
As leaving birdseed for chipmunks cull more attention than my squash.
Heeding our Youngsters’ Artifacts
That we heed our youngsters’ artifacts, like architecture, cookware,
Is easily substantiated.
Our society embraces media makers’ fusillades over rhetoric from
Empowered folks.
Merely targeting attention legitimately negotiates other peoples’
Experiences.
Interpersonal peregrinations end poorly when we won’t commit
“Necessary” resources.
If grappling with beloveds insistent on changing our bath minerals,
Else our herbal conditioners,
Best, we come to terms with their cannonades, ignore all products’
Meaning of “beauty.”
Still, once discussing matters with golden year felines, conferring
With hounds,
No matter how mainstream, how important, our kids’ tenets stick
For eternity.
Sure, we’ll douse select menu items with cod liver oil, cause
Our scions
To scrub away their traces of culinary mischief. Afterwards,
We’ll try to flee.
Skunk and Zebra: Interdependence at its Best
(A Prose Poem)
She whuffed while hoofing at the carrots in her trough. Truly, alfalfa was tastier. Not all equines like the same food.
Skunk squeezed through the fence. Visiting hours were over. Sundays were unendurable given tired keepers, ambitious children, loud crowds, also tenacious pigeons. Greeting Zebra, she emptied the trough. Grubs were more work.
