Flame flower

This one doesn't looks good, but it represent the moment. While I type this it's heavy raining, and while it rains the birds are singing; how weird is that. And while it's raining our town here is sunk in big personal and social problems, and while that happens, all our published poets sings about our landscapes. It sounds pathological having all our published poets not writing about us or themselves. I've tried to find where they write about the human being in their sings about our landscapes, but I can't see it; may be it's me. So I feel the flower of our moments fading, or worst, it burns and dissappears in oblivion, fragmented in ashes of flames and darkness. I don't have the complete certainty if our artists in town are attaching to escapisms, but they are surely very close, all the time. I swear it's raining right now, and the birds keep singing here.

O poets,
While you are busy being so clever,
So imaginative in your reconstruction of language,
So worthy of literary praise,
An aging woman returns home late from work
And finds no joy in the things she owns,
The things that own her,
The husband who does not really love her.

O poets,
While you are busy being so clever,
A young man rises early and fights traffic
To be on time at a job that means nothing to him,
Working all day long without meaning.

O poets,
While you are busy being so clever,
Thousands upon thousands suffer quietly,
Quietly suffocating and not knowing why.

Russ Allison Loar, "O poets".