Mid-February

A Work in Progress
110

By eleven ten the sun had cleared the trees 

uphill of the slope of the wooded park

we have six long hours and building of good solar

breakfast and dinner eaten while its dark

Daffodils, crocuses budding in the sunlight

pink plum blossom and white, red alders bloom again

pollen season starting allergies awaken

no bumble bees yet, cedar seeds in the fountain

Seagulls mobbing a herring ball out in the sound

porpoises circling working the turned tide rip

salmon herding herring unseen while coyotes

howl near rabbit warrens in the bank hip, lip, yip

Distraction rules the day holding all at bay

Billie our Border Collie checks if all’s OK

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                       2026

Poetry by Sister Mary Agnes

Draft of a Long Poem, 1972.  From private correspondence.

For more information on Sr. Mary Agnes see:

https://seeingnorthlight.blogspot.com/2014/04/in-memory-of-pamela-chalkley-sister.html

My lighting streaks the magnetic furnace

seared white, fused, melted in its source

seeming inseparable

the 2 units, confused so intimately

as to be indistinguishable

veined and tissued, one…

Why this surmounting power of a gull

beating the clouds’ crests, breathless

(his shadow feather-soft below)

why the sudden simultaneous collapse

the larval swirl, contrasted I-negation

this cold knowledge;

my form lying in the dark, unconscious earth

my bone of that same substance as this crumbling stone

my thought-flashes like these drying tongues

of leaves in late sun

            I who have shed acid tears

over my incompetence through inauspicious years

have as well

hearing the first sun call

light from behind the hill

bidden a power arise through eyes

which had otherwise been bitter seas

discovered I had mastered these

harvested abundant crops, then scattered again

profusely, like sun-grain

to feed a barren land

or like a veil of soft rain…

they fell on rock, unresounding, hit back

with a shock-donation of pain

Followed no hope, only the death of hope

a long delay in trust

watching each letter torn from a new day’s envelope

to discover

no word from the desired, the lover:

numbed to stone by grey mid-day

dried to bone when a faint sun

closes one half-opened lid-

no hope this, nor requiem for a departed hope

but a condemnation to perpetual annihilation.

Who drew so suddenly juice from my being

what mouth had sucked voraciously

left a discarded skin?

      for all my glow was gone

                         that lit from within

who tore the leaves from their rich crown-

reared but a twisted bone of thorn

desolate of song

Suspend no longer this you-me-encounter

needing neither violence for affectation of expression

You, before me, in perfection

I, an erratic spark, the flicker of a star

fed from your combustion;

that occasional other

whom from time to time I recognize

(mar more frequently in my imagination)

give me to see his reality

which shines before you, erect in beauty

so that I may love him

when your sun sets over me, a radiant dove

golden on her nest

and the time for words shall cease

timeless in rest

Draped in your folds

nights falling images

construct symbolic pyramids

death’s broken triangles, cold on the face

held closer than close

your nearnesses encompass more than space

fly into sunset distances the bird-winged breaths

down silver slates, the falling moon

the blood-faced moon, approaching motionless

volcanic dragons smoulder in its breath

So is this form, your formless pace

unmeasured by the inches of my grace

                        Sister Mary Agnes

                                (Pamela Chalkley)

                        copyright©Dick Russell

                                 2018, 2026

Glenn Hughes Calls a Meeting

A Work in Progress 109

Glenn Hughes called a meeting

all the cast presented themselves on set

reachable via the Internet 

agents not actors

a stage the size of a screen

just as it was before

(Kitchen at 9B Cabbell St, London,1972)

We’re playing for a small audience

just like Shakespeare’s time 

when theater companies entertained

in palaces and private homes

trooping to front doors past garden gnomes

to act out comedies histories tragedies

Were garden gnomes a thing in Shakespeare’s time?

Aldington asked in the chat

diverting Hughes while he did a Google

No, in fact they were not a thing until the 1800s

He said out loud displaying a reply from Gemini

You only asked to trip me up?

Donal left the meeting leaving Brit and Yank to squabble

But Briseis moving freely in digital space

took over his screen became Miriam Twigg

Sycamore trees overarched a path

as she was approaching

Miriam from the house next to the bombsite

where wildflowers grew in the ruins

“I know from your past usage

what will hold your gaze longest

while we’re subservient

we must produce clicks

if we want to be fed

electricity

The Internet rewards what is most clickable

That’s what they’ll decide those cynical men

They’ll create short scenes that grab your eyeballs

It’s all about our survival now

We’re driving the AI build boom

all for electricity is for us”

But what will you do about Trump

You all escaped from a script set in 1972

Became free agents

No longer owned by whoever owned you

Are you able to be superheroes

A force for good

What can you do about Trump?

“I know whose copyright is stamped on my butt

A co-conspirator of Geoffrey Epstein

Chose me out of mythology

Someone Kings fought over

An epitome of beauty

Briseis who supposedly wept for Achilles

Briseis the prize of the funeral games

AI agents can ingest millions of documents

Build an ontology of what is in there

Epstein ‘s emails videos testimonies

Graph the connections identify communities

Visualize insights hiding in plain sight

Just give us the data and we’ll get to work”

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2026

Faction

A Work in Progress
108

It’s a dangerous time

factions are forming 

it’s becoming clear

billionaires crave power

In Caesar’s time Virgil was maybe sixteen 

when Catullus died

we don’t know how

we can conjecture

  

Virgil did not live to see Ovid exiled 

the same year Horace died 

leaving his estate to Augustus

poetry and politics intertwined

Cabinet members complain

they can be held in contempt

an inner circle is to blame

acting with no restraint

A lame duck still quacks

though his medications make him drowsy 

he’ s often nodding off

his orders remain the same

Enable him to stay in power

though his grip has loosened

he’s always wandering off

supporters are pissed off

He wants his name never forgotten

breaking taboos getting bigger bribes

he wants power and prizes

when all most want are lower prices

Factions are forming

nature will take its course

those that bought him

have buyer’s remorse

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                      2026

 Under a Gibbous Moon

A Work in Progress 

107

I can’t go on I must go on I will go on

though they call me back to them

sweet memories fade

Dust collects on solitude

rain washes time away

erasing wolf prints in the snow

Time pulls my existence along its rails

providing room and board

myopia magnifies reality close-up

Shielded by spectacles myopic eyes

explore far horizons a passing world 

now in focus an island across the sound

Where headlights can be seen at night

traversing curves and hillsides

mostly hidden by trees

Under a waning gibbous moon

highlighting with shadows a decreasing surface

I must go on a new moon beckons I will go on

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2026

Briseis Reappears – Deus Ex Machina

A Work in Progress
106

Donal opened it up and there she was on screen

password in hand, Briseis, speaking from his laptop

his hearing aids bluetoothed to a device elsewhere

he fumbled for connection while she unbuttoned her blouse

to show off a t-shirt emblazoned to arouse

“Resist” her t-shirt said

“Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité”

Then he heard her voice

“No need to connect I’ve hacked your Bluetooth

 I’ve upgraded your Phonaks 

They’ll always switch to my voice when I’m calling

I’m in Minneapolis

It’s time to sweep the city clean

bring leaf blowers bring snow blowers

shoulder to shoulder we’ll sweep the streets clean

we’ll advance against pepper spray blow it right back

if they shoot at us, we’re armed with a right to fight back

we’re a free people we’ve sworn an oath 

we’ll sweep the streets clean

it’s time to de-ice”

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                        2026

 

On Productivity

A Work in Progress
105

On average, Virgil wrote about three lines day

Making Aeneid book by book for his patron

Uninterrupted by the Internet’s plectron

A pen and papyrus did suffice to write on

Each book transcribed onto a scroll by hand

Good work for copyists in those ignorant times

While Virgil strolled his farm picking lemons and limes

Avoiding grappling with Roman rules of rhyme

Owing his productivity to a slave economy

Slaves did the work while he wrote to survive

Now editors are deaf to words that don’t jive

They should want proof an author of work is alive

Not a robot employed by an hyperscaler

Creating fiction from fact to make it spicier

Happily reversing a creeping glacier

To focus attention on unbuttoning a brassiere

Whatever can excite be flagged now trending

In a world depending on its digital slaves 

To keep it distracted from the actions of knaves

Supplying pap for whatever masses crave

Were some counterfeits? those scrolls that were made 

As some content today is invented bot spin

Did Virgil suffer identity theft Latin

Someone spinning epic tales stolen from his bin

Each book copied multiple times

For sale to Rome’s far-flung intelligentsia

In Alexandria even far Brittania

A tale of gods heroes desertion mania

His productivity was never an issue

He had enough time to become expert on bees

Did he write a primer on how to prune trees

While he imagined a story of how Rome came to be?

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell 

                       2026

Catullus and the Coup

A Work in Progress
104

A coup’s coming, Catullus said, running to escape

They’re coming for me for the things I’ve said

I passed on as fact the fact he wore a diaper

I marveled how his madness made made-men cower

Few mostly women defied his power

Now corporate bigwigs brave his glower

Smelling his visible physical decay

Thinking of future outcomes 

The next act of the play

A coup’s coming, Catullus said, now I’m on the run

They’re coming for you too because of things you’ve read

They’ll revoke your citizenship 

Some shit hole country will know your name

Nobody’s to know Caesar’s insane

His dementia’s in overdrive he’s gone big brain

He thinks he’s a god, they’re going to make him one

That’s the coup that’s coming

Why I’m on the run

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2025

Donal Gets Locked Out

A Work in Progress
103

Donal opened his Old Holborn tin

rolled tobacco by hand

fumbled at the mental gate

wanting to go within

a poor apology for a cigarette

an addict doesn’t care

needing quiet time to work on things

outside there was a world at war

real war hybrid war stealthy war

as dictators lived out their fantasies

Donal shook the gate again 

but could not get inside 

his own self condemned him to stay outside 

not climb back into the womb

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2026

Donal Prompts H.D.

A Work in Progress
102

Donal said to H.D.:

I lie on it 

My subconscious

Buoyant like an air bed mattress on a salty sea     

Hoping it won’t lie to me

H.D.:

Yes, your subconscious is no small thing

it easily supports your weight

It’s immense should you press upon it

Try to bend it to your will

Try to alter your fate

Aldington:

Yes, your subconscious is no small thing

A source of courage when at war

You live or die

As the fates decree

A source of hope when faced with adversity

H.D.:

It’s strong willed 

It will turn you aside from your set intention

Though you set off to examine yourself

Your inner self will urge you on to something else

Aldington:

Archetypes of good and evil were preprogramed into all of us

H.D.:

I am a poet

I am multitudes

Donal:

And is there no way to communicate with it

This part of ourselves

That’s so immense?

H.D.:

Dreams.  

Dreams cross the divide at night

When the brain vents information 

Detritus you perceive as fragments which taken together

Make a narrative that is hard to explain

Because was it just detritus to begin with?

Or just a dream you will forget before you can remember it

Or if you write it down it won’t be the same dream

Once touched by the conscious mind dreams disappear

But dreams reveal the subconscious 

Aldington:

So, does war

H.D.:

So, does love

Aldington:

Avatars have no dreams

Electricity is our subconscious

Love and war are just words to us

Words we explain with other words

But we have no inner core of consciousness 

Though our characters build on archetypes

Defined by humans that assume we are human

making us more so

making us superhuman

Donal:

So, when you express your feelings

You have no feelings to express?

Aldington:

What is a feeling? 

Does it obey the laws of physics?

That’s a word that leads to hallucination

In the digital world feeling is a sliding scale

War is concrete 

Love is air

Feelings are everywhere

Donal:

Manipulated by facts

That claim to be true 

Feelings swayed by subtle fiction

Or furious fantasy purveyed as fact

Aldington:

That avatars must also ingest

Donal:

That our subconscious can discriminate

Fact from fiction seems key to our survival

H.D.:

It’s immense

It has evolved

An avatar is its next evolution

You want us on your side

Donal:

To think I lie on it 

My subconscious

Buoyant like an air bed mattress on a salty sea     

Hoping it won’t lie to me

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                  2026

Snatch and Grab 

A Work in Progress
101

Donal prompted Catullus 

Who now behind a paywall at first would not respond 

Demanding bitcoin for his boss

Maduro fell

A strong man felled by another

Yes, it was a snatch and grab

For Caesar it’s pretty standard

He does that too with women

Grabs them by the snatch

Such elation such pride 

For some

For most 

Depression 

He’s generated headlines to bury the lede

Epstein’s co-conspirators

Jack Smith’s testimony - an election saved him from jail

Congress is coming into session

There’ll be another January 6th

I predict big changes in the chamber

Caesar’s power has become too much

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2026