From ⁨⁨⁨⁨⁨#AnnafromUkraine⁩⁩⁩⁩⁩ @[email protected]

RUSSIA FUEL CRISIS: UKRAINE CUTS OFF CRIMEA, REFINERIES ON FIRE Vlog 1426: War in #Ukraine

#Russia is on the brink of a huge #gasoline #crisis, and in the temporarily occupied #Crimea coupons for gasoline are already introduced. Ukrainian #drones successfully neutralized two Russian #TU142 and an #Iskander #missile system in #Taganrog, #Saratov #oil #refinery burning.

#russoUkrainianWar

https://youtu.be/by_3wrhKQW0

Four poems on a Saturday morning

Some poetry lately, placed in order of most to least favored (by me).

Escape
Gasoline, propel me
Away from here at a high rate of speed

We’ve dredged you to burn you
For your torture to take us anywhere but here

Take me, then
To where rubber trees feed on the infinite roads of America
Where the billboards beat by 
Endlessly selling a better life

Little explosions of freedom under the hood unseen, 
hide the violence of my escape

Take me past the landfills 
Where the goods of the rich and poor alike meet the same decay 
Where the armchairs from Restoration Hardware 
Comfortably greet oblivion alongside those from Ikea
And your grandaddy’s old rocker

Take me across America’s parched deserts 
High into its mountains 
Beneath its skies, its spacious skies

God, let this tailpipe offering be your signal 
To shed your grace on me
Even in the form of acid rain,
to my windshield wipers, it’s all the same
Gasoline

Busy street|
A thousand cars a day or more 
must drive by my house

I hear them from my living room 

They go by with a whoosh
almost like a gust of wind 

Sometimes I hear a car stereo

A low rumble of bass 
causes some part of a vehicle to 
vibrate its annoyance

And every once in a while, an ambulance 

A honk from a disgruntled driver

But in the evenings
as traffic calms 
you can close your eyes 

Relax as the interval of the whoosh expands

Close your eyes and wait for the wheels 
the displaced air 
it’s almost like breathing

Early autumn, lakeside in Northern Minnesota
In the fall when the leaves turn and loosen their grip
the wind takes them
a breeze or a gust at a time

By a lakeside in Northern Minnesota
The hearts of golden aspens
drift to the water’s edge
those early departers scatter to the ground
sink like wishful coins into the lakebed
fade into the muck

Trees along the nearby trails sway and creak
lean against each other like drunken pals late in the night
until someday one falls down
while the other waits its turn 

And when the wind picks up suddenly
sometimes it feels to me like the end
and sometimes it feels like the beginning 

But of course, it is both

Viola
Some days are endless 
until one day is not 
and that day is then 
suddenly too soon
washed away
mopped up
dried out
kicked down the stairs 
into the darkness
viola