It's New November In Los Angeles Poem by Linda Hepner

It's new November and the sun is hot

unlike November bonfires in the days of yore.

When young we burned Guy Fawkes, but here the plot

of fertile soil God's wisdom was conserving for


next spring. Then daffodils are autumn dreams,

peach blossoms shriveled, grasses parched and barely grown,

and grandchildren search for some rushing stream

to lubricate their voice and flesh upon the bone.


I fear for living beings, fear for us

fiddling so carelessly while Rome about us burns;

no Vatican to lay the law or fuss

that God created man to reap just what he earns


and not a jot more, reaching to the stars,

where maybe once some greedy creatures ploughed their fields

and grabbing more, invented guns and czars

demanding more than what their good earth yearly yields.


I fear we see this hot November how

our greed has called the god of Balance out to cause

our springtime punishment, his barren vow

of summer plenty casting us to famine's hellish jaws.