Harvest
Pillaged by tractor and combine,
Robert Rogers
To a Poet with Nothing to Write About
" ' Fool,' said the Muse, 'look into thy heart and write.' "
Cry! Cry! What Shall I Cry?
Wrapped in a sterilized code
Time
When most of the casual goodnights have been spoken
Conscience
Locked in a man-made prisoner cell
Morning worship
That squat church sprawls,
V-W Day
"Hpw shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"
Family
Freed from the clutches of that octopus
August
The sun-blown roses fade
Last days
When men had marred old tales with telling
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
