by Lynda Gene Rymond
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Last night under my window I heard a coyote clack its teeth. Today’s skies grow dark, darker. Clouds purr at first but then it’s full-throated growls breaking to thunderclaps to shake the house while in the city of angels men on horseback stalk like corrupted knights to intimidate children. Tactical vehicles prowl. A small black woman, Madam Mayor, confronts, her fury rising like heatwaves. Be furious. Be thunder. Shake their houses. Steal their horses, count coup, paint their dishonor. Find a mightier pen to wield. Tell tales that crack walls. Sing, sing all the way to morning.
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Lynda Gene Rymond lives and works on Goblin Farm in Applebachsville, Pa. She is a winner of the Pennwriters Short Story Prize and a multi-year finalist for Bucks County Poet Laureate. Her latest publication, Spellbook, has just been published by Moonstone Arts. Learn more at www.goblinfarm.net
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“Be furious. Be thunder.” Yes! So should we all be.
I like this poem very much. Taut, tight, as it should be for the subject matter. I am one who lives near the city of coyotes, angels and thugs, so this poem speaks to me. I just visited the poet's Goblin Farms website, but it seems to not have been updated since 2023....still, it's worth a visit.