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Saint Petersburg

Saint Petersburg is enigmatic

to the average tourist, hoping,

For a quick look , and some shopping:


Sitting, self-satisfied,with an old lady

Praying before her, and Ladoga Lake

For when the Neva River forsakes


The escape of the nomenklatura

To greener, foreign upland pastures

Gunning great Zils to Finnish rapture.


Now they return, slipping in once more,

Palaces and Cathedra again to warm,

Peer from curtains at pulsating swarms


Of paying customers with western cash,

As leathered apparatchiks paw Party Cards,

Both stained brown with age, and disregard;


In such a place of beauty, one's entitled to expect

A modicum of plain dealing, of an honest bob,

Earned in the provision of services – its national job.


And yet the olden days still linger,

Stuck in recollections of a dreadful past,

To ensure old memories the longer last.


Chris Hubbard



◄ Deep Last Autumn

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Chris Hubbard

Tue 15th Jun 2021 13:22

I apologize for tis under-done poem. I was overtaken for the stellar
response of my previous effort - "Deep Last Autumn".

Fame is so fickle.

(signed) Chris Hubbard

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