This Mess

 I open my night

Tonight I will wander on open roads

Tonight I will have some time off, even from my dreams

https://open.spotify.com/track/7BVwi9cIzSc6tpyxsp47vJ?si=UB0voe3QTR-HTsFTxZfJtQ

https://www.fractalart.gr/me-ton-tropo-tis-katerinas/?fbclid=IwZnRzaAOYnTBleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZAo2NjI4NTY4Mzc5AAEetOta6MvJF7Jnw5RQVyYRZxVcTocuPO7aWE43B3xS_GLUpEsIMe6bAhG42dg_aem_1jXskSIG_cY9mo8ZKRPecA

 Coyote

Once they came down only at dark
from the canyons. Now they trot out
bold in daylight on sunlit pavement.
Still, if you move close, they vanish fast

into shadows under the freeway,
blocks from the ocean. Up beyond
the flammable mansions on over-
built lots, where they once burrowed

safe, gave birth to ravenous young.
Now they watch under scaffolding
swinging above sliding foundations.
Near the homeless tarps, scattered

fires. Wolf instinct awakes in the
once-wilderness. They’d feed at your
jugular. You mean nothing to them, you
who believed in the evolved domestic.

Hunger, not love, draws your dog.
The need in the gut. Each choice
made in your life sentimentalized.
Like the young you fed first. Gone

too when you return with nothing
but your worn advice on how to survive.

Carol Musk Dukes

 Infirmity

Chartreuse green tinging old wood

Dusting off, the palette of life is 

 accumulating fresh hues

On wrinkled skins

The sunlight futures rally and

Still- nature, the almighty teacher and preacher 

Reigns without registration of pain

2025

 Κορφοτρυπημενη

Δλεβετε

Πλαλητ γνουσκοι να τρων ζουρλοί

Αφνοι που μας χρωστούσαν μας πήραν κι του βόδι 

Τ άδειο του μουνι παίζ τσαλαγανι

The Second Coming

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?