Crossroads a cold morning in a cold room cigarette smoke blooms as i stir my instant coffee leafing through the tempest memorizing passages to regurgitate as required one last test before I leave driving to your london residence hoping you’ll be there the highways snowed and slushy farm fields silent under snowy shrouds black trees
Somewhere along the way we lost it That connection to our roots To a time when civilization and mother were in cahoots When plants were friends that healed us Our brothers and sisters thrived When Gaia made certain The circle would stay alive Somehow we forgot this Death and famine plague our earth This disease
Oh, in fair Corona where we lay this scene with many bleak views of the obscene state of being of mind of (ill)repair something is there Where knowledge remains begging to be re-kindled re-jigged re-purposed as it is re-aligned to meet learning outcomes with OER materials fully digital for ease of access as long as
The Hair Exhibit at Auschwitz That Doesn’t Allow Photographs These shafts dead piled behind glass straight, wavy blackish, brownish wheat coloured scarecrow braid This silky earth sticks to surface of ballooning outrage shuttered recollections of follicles, the ones scissored from becoming.
Uproar is now accepting submissions for November 2020. This month, participants are welcome to submit work of any genre or theme. We look forward to reading your work! You may submit your writing here: https://lawrencehouse.ca/uproar/theme/