‘land of Burning River
and Blackout
that sour the palate
of strangers and natives,
let us sup
that homemade milk,
that bitter nectar,
sharing sweet barbeque
on the warm, dark curb
‘land where Hope grows
by the streetlights
and in the RTA seats
as red grape vines in the fields,
drink and eat
with rock and roll
pouring in the windows,
hot, sweet salsa
on plates and dance floors
‘land brimming with life
where Stationwagon Saints
rise from the ashes
of factory smokestacks,
paragons alive
like liquid steel,
hometown heroes
kicking down doors
of corrupt captors,
born and raised
in red dust and lake breeze
‘land fiercely loyal –
here, women and men,
know the weather
will change in minutes,
adamant lovers
of wine and gold,
brown and orange,
red, white, and blue –
resolute, uncalloused
by seasons of want
‘land green with peace,
The Forest City
whose rapid terminals
are ancestral roots
running deep underground,
tendrils of freedom
rusty crimson like iron ore
after a belting snow,
and after gray winter
Dawg-woods blossom
a fragrant, towering bouquet
‘land flowing
with unbroken harmony,
from street car bells
to string orchestra,
in every Bone,
every sweet-voiced child,
the thirst for song
rises over every lock gate
pouring over towpath
and by-pass
‘land of unfailing belief,
kickin’ like Owens
on the golden bricks,
windmillin’ like Bron
electrically charged,
slingin’ like Feller
right down Broadway,
bein’ like Hanks,
in the Globe.
Callin’ from 216
through 440
to 330
we have faith
in God
In Country
and in The Land
Mick Ó Seasnáin has continually attempted to farm his quarter acre lot in the small town of Wooster, Ohio while catering to the diverse and often unanticipated needs of his tripod-ish dog and three feral-ish children. His lovely wife tolerates his creative habits and occasionally enables his binge writing. Read more of his work at https://tinyurl.com/
–Art by Marina Ćorić
