Category: Poem

the recession

On By ©️K.T. 2026In climate, Climate Chaos, Climate Collapse, Earth hospice, Earthling, earthlings, ecocide, Hospice, Lament, Lamentations, Near Term Human Extinction, planetary hospice, Poem, poetry, Sixth Mass Extinction, thresholdLeave a comment

i witnessed the last of the snow piles
hand-shoveled or machine-threwn
and the natural drifts too
and the mound in the hollow
of the hügelkultur crescent moon

slowly recede, in a mesmerizing, seemingly molassic, week’s long retreat
then finally and sadly, concede

to the undormant grasses and soft ground beneath
to the sunlit warmth
of these nouveau
great lakes winters

my god,

what global madness
this adored microcosm, my priceless homestead, reveals
and catechizes for me:

our violent, human heat
an unrelenting torrent of accelerant that would
vanquish the ancients


melt greenland’s sheets of ice,
calve antarctic glaciers, strand polar bears,
expose or drown granite, basalt, gneiss


all, in the time of
that old sugar maple’s life

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postpartum

On By ©️K.T. 2026In Alchemy, Aurum, Birth, Crone, Cronehood, Feminine, grandmother, kin, maiden, maternity, Mother, Poem, poetry, Sacred Feminine, symbiosity, womb, women, WomenfolkLeave a comment

fetal cells
remain in a mother’s body for decades
they know this
particularly
because of mothers of sons

son cells discovered
co-mingling in their mother’s
blood
and marrow
long after their first breaths of atmosphere
and for far too many mothers,
long after their child’s last

we mothers, in-secret chimeras
29, 50,
years after birthing /

no wonder

he breathes
1,191.582 miles away from me

as the crow flies,
as the monarch flies
as the hummingbird flies

and still, i feel the cells of gold i alchemized

for 42 strange, wondrous weeks

in my crone bones

postpartum is forever

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goldilocks’ zone

On By ©️K.T. 2026In climate, Climate Chaos, Climate Collapse, Earth hospice, Earthling, earthlings, Hospice, Near Term Human Extinction, Poem, poetry, Sixth Mass Extinction, symbiosityLeave a comment

the widespread muck,
usual to late March
now spoils the January, the December, February too

there are no more
seasons,

only drownt
or parched

what use
is axial tilt, solar distance
while these men
lock-up the thermostat and disarrange the elements

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& answered

On By ©️K.T. 2026In PoemLeave a comment

the kind of god who made
a predator, at all
a carnivore, at all
and worst, of all

a two-legged omnivore
that must char his stone-killed and -cut meat over flinted fire
to choke it down his gullet,
that cloaks himself in the hide and fur and skin and silk of killed, dead things,
that rises in the morning to mine forests, coal, ore, and ancient dead things
to form and forge steel
for his sole animus

theft, consumption and death

of land, women and children,

that’s who.

preparation

On By ©️K.T. 2026In agraria, bucolia, climate, Climate Collapse, Crone, crone chronicles, Crone Consciousness, Cronehood, dirt road chronicles, Earthling, ecocide, Genocide, goodbye city life, inner city, outer rural, Palestine, planetary hospice, Poem, poetry, ruralia, Winter, WomenfolkLeave a comment

she counted propane canisters
for her two Mr. Heaters
put batteries in her camp lanterns — circa 2004,
set out votive and prayer candles, matches and lighters,

worked past midnight
to empty, wash, fill or refill glass wine bottles with water for drinking, teeth-brushing, cooking

that is the advantage of the white wine screw cap bottles
p.s. VOGA pinot grigio is unrivaled for this use
she’s saved them over the months for this sole purpose, those Italians sure know what they’re doin’

she rotated supply: filled buckets with the previously stored precious water,
placed them in the bathtubs for toilet flushing
and in Igloo jugs
for hand and face washing
& dishwashing

(and, hoe baths too)

this beautiful welled water, pumped from 75 feet below the surface, 10 feet of clay and 65 of sand, her friend once researched county well drill permit records for her.

she made a pot of marinara, boiled 3 lbs of potatoes, planned for pancakes, printed out dutch oven bread recipes,

she set out the dog’s paw wax and his wardrobe of coats,

she refreshed her vintage wool blankets on low heat with honeysuckle-infused dryer sheets,

found her favorite j. crew wool men’s sweater, moss green — circa 1999, which reminded: she best learn some knitting – for repairs and darning, at the very least, the cuff seam is unraveling, but, my god, it’s so warm.

she filled all the bird feeders before sunset, although she’s spotted deer at them at twilight and midnight — using their tongues to excavate the seed,

she set the snow shovel and outdoor broom just outside, beside her back door

all this,

just in case

freezing lines and tree limbs knock the power out

and Lake Effect drifts become temporarily insurmountable

she’s always prepared, she always knows what to do

or can generally figure it out, figure a way out of it – and, without GPS

except:

what to do in

a genocide and in climate collapse.

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“wolf”

On By ©️K.T. 2026In Anubis, Death, Justice, Lajuana Lampkins, Life and Death, Poem, poetry, the old godsLeave a comment
for the One and Only

Lajuana Lampkins

March 29, 1957 ~ February 26, 2025

May Allah grant her Jannah

& for All the Mothers whose children were — and will be murdered by the State — domestic or foreign, & for All Mothers who have lost — and will lose their children to the brutal and carceral machinations and institutions of the State
Weighing of the Heart | Book of the Dead
Thoth and Anubis weigh the candidate’s heart against the feather of Ma’at while Ammit hungrily awaits the judgment.
Inside Ancient Egypt exhibit,
Field Museum of Natural History,
Chicago, January 2013
photo: by author

she cries “wolf!” so often
that it becomes tempting to ignore

yet the wolves were always nearby,
stalking, steady clawing at her door

there’s a Wolf curled up at her feet now,
but he’s not of the pack of violent beasts,

you see, this Wolf is not a hungried one,
and He does not want her for his feast

Anubis is the Wolf’s name,
and He waits to gently weigh her Heart

on the Golden Scales of Justice
He’s balanced with a badge and service glock,

these reparations just for her, and Mothers like her,
in lieu of the Feather of Ma’at

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the year of unmagical thinking

On By ©️K.T. 2026In december, Didion, end-of-year, Joan Didion, Lament, Lamentations, new year poem, new year’s eve, Poem, poetry, threshold, TonantzinLeave a comment

all delusions were set out in the meadow for scavengers
along with all the seeds she didn’t start this year
she had prophetic dreams
she barely touched her tarot
he now lives entirely outside of her heart
she showed up first, but only as her second, or third choice
then, she died days later, in hospice, at 56,
and presumably,
knows now that she couldn’t take it with her, Egyptian-Pharaonic style
blood and cultural descendants of holocaust survivors are revelling in an ongoing genocide
and someone finally inspected his spots,
but leopards cannot change theirs
some of us, are just about ‘dat’ life, she re-learned
others, lie to themselves about their innocence,
or responsibility, including me,
we are all stereotypes
radical self-promotion and self-reinforcing mediocrity are apparently the new power couple,
she didn’t make it to the Remedios Varo show at the Art Institute of Chicago – with, and on, purpose.
her bones began to ache during sunlight, too, so that’s new,
”People incapable of guilt usually do have a good time.”

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December 23rd, of the year of great loss, 2023

On By ©️K.T. 2026In PoemLeave a comment

On the eve of Christmas Eve, whether Jesus the Christ be a historical human being or mythical figure doesn’t matter — what we know about Jesus of the Gospels, canonized and gnostic is that [t]he[y] would abhor and denounce, the United States and State of Israel with their Temples and Capitols and Pentagons full of woeful Pharisee hypocrites, money-changers and weapons-makers.

To those who have the eyes to see and the ears to hear, witness and listen:

May the Christ within you, awaken, then enrage and enflame your hearts with a love for all who merely want to live in peace upon and with the Earth.

We are all potential Christs.

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definition | author | proof of life:

On By ©️K.T. 2026In author, Crone, Cronehood, Earthling, Gnostic, Her, ki, kin, kinship, liminal, liminality, limineen, maiden, Mother, Motherhood, Pneumatic, Poem, poet, poetry, self portaiture, witch, WomenfolkLeave a comment

foremost Earthling, crone,
and mother to a golden boy;
nightly traveler into liminality;
mostly obeisant
to intuition & premonition;
poet, writer;
heart-sleeved,
bleeding heart pessimist;
devoted friend of crows (at last),
meadow-restorer/tender,
& long-lost sister to snakes, bats and coyotes,
deer & bluebird whisperer,
seed saver, food grower,
an admirer and propagator
of lilacs, hydrangeas,
sycamores, mulberries, pawpaws and oaks;
dna-tested kin to goldenrod, milkweed,
bison, cottonwoods, thistle and monarchs;
wader into ephemeral and glacial
lakes and deep snow;
Moon’s luminous, loyal daughter
& Sun’s prodigal, ever-questioning shadow
equally;
devout, ecstatic
desert, forest and river worshipper;
reverent of and humbly deferent to
bear, wolf, moose, elk & bighorn sheep and hummingbirds;
a mountain, canyon, valley,
prairie and beach walker;


i swam and swam and swam my way alive.

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deadly viper assassination squad / kill von Til

On By ©️K.T. 2026In Ouroboros, Poem, poetry, Trickster, Vengeance, XenophobiaLeave a comment

i read that an African green mamba
escaped its Dutch trafficker, a collector and captor of living beings

i am someone who never recovered
from reading Kingsolver’s “Poisonwood Bible”
i am someone who never recovered
from experiencing Alex Haley’s “Roots” on American television for eight consecutive nights

i am someone who imagines
an exquisite vengeance
for the fugitive, deadly snake
upon the low people of the Netherlands,
the hubris of those who would build higher and higher dams to contain the rising, wild seas
with transatlantic shipping wealth, every last cent: descendant of African blood money
while they continue in unironic chant for their tulipped nation’s and bland continent’s homogeneity:

make Europe great again!

while, i am someone who quietly incants:

may the viper in silent slither
at their coming fest of Sinterklaas
strike them in the street
as they joyfully parade
with their black-faced Zwarte Piet