Myth of this Season:death/life/America


(Origin of: Ghosts of Regret)

Chem trail fed clouds burst,
spilling life giving rain.
Saturated now –
this once barren, scorched soil.
Mud, sand, and rock,
crackles with the cries of seed
bursting at the seems
gas fumed mist, bubbles through
once dried mucous, oozing, juices flow,
mingled with the blood of a thousand Cherubim:
who gave their lives to free us
from the Corporate Overlords.

©Danisms 2016



  1. I enjoyed this although I’m not a big poem fan. Is this a poem? How is a poem defined? The words are interesting, and go well with the photo.


    1. For me, the state of mind (which is based on very little knowledge mind you), I’m in while writing, seeking a rhythm to complete a line. When I read a poem, whether it’s Robert Frost, Emerson, William Blake or Emily Dickinson. Every style no matter how different follow a beat. I could be mistaken in what qualifies as poetry to anyone other then myself. I fool myself quite often.thanks.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. My maternal great, great, great uncle was John Keats. He would have appreciated your gift of the written word…I imagine your literary compilation is vast…

        Liked by 1 person

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