The night
so quiet like
a loaf of rising bread
or a letter
to the condemned
while the dead trees
of silence spread
their naked limbs
like a willow by the water
someone’s empty bed
listen
all I know
is this universe
is a swarm of stars
and the moon
that ancient stone
burning like a ship
takes my life
on a journey without me
deaf as sleep
cold as the black sea.
Who cares about the affairs
of poor women
who work their fingers
to the bone
just ask them
those who have been let down
and taken up
like the hem of a gown
rich ladies wear
at the country club
taking up a collection for the nun
who cares for the orphans
when there is golf
and invitations to dances
to attend in the evening
on the east lawn
by the garden
the master in his white gloves
brushes dirt
off of his evening jacket
and a flash of a silver flask
in the moonlight
like a dagger in the back
of ambassadors
while those authorities on gas
and all of their advisors
go over lists of the uninvited
keeping tabs on who has
and who hasn’t shown up yet
smoking cigarettes
and drinking cold duck
with their fish eggs
as the dark guests
who were never invited
dance alone in the garden
with their silhouettes.
On a black night
one cold November
the lost Buffalo Soldier
came back to his home
and found his family
dead and gone, white
people were living
in his house with chickens
even though his name
was still scratched on
the prow of the mailbox,
so he unbuttoned his shirt
and waited in the fields
until the moon came up
and shined in the shaving mirror
nailed to a post on the porch
while he smoked remembering
all you have to do is dream
the old king had told him.
This sun, a red wound
wound ’round the horizon.
It burns my back, man.
Turns my brown skin redder
than a redman. As red
as a bullet hole in a blackman
in Ohio. Black is the new red. Yo.
We tore down the federal fences
and burned the old posts.
Man, the smoke smells like freedom
and the fire is still hot.
Did you see them take the green fields one by one
– Now line by line on hills in echelon?
Still; holding ground held holy by their sons.
Did you hear them marching to the smoke and drum?
Where bugler called the day to final rest,
Now silence grows like lichen on the stones.
For those who gave their all at our behest,
Our memories alone will not atone.
Do you see the fires burning at a distance,
– And more hallowed ground broken day by day?
Each new stone laid a fading reminiscence;
Each new boquet soon fading into gray.
What better way to honor sacrifice
Than to pause and speak their names aloud
Until the gods of war are pacified;
Until our flag no longer serves as shroud.
Would you have
….our stars not shine?
Would you have darkness
….be your shrine?
#BringBackOurGirls
Beneath the mango tree
death turns slowly –
creaks the branches/
untouchable – the tears
hanging low above the ground –
slowly swinging – no more singing/
beneath the mango tree.
Steady lads
You’re the farmer
You’re the scythe
Sharp like a knife
They’re the wheat
Stalks in the wind
Steady boys
They come again
Time to reap
*Gettysburg, The Wheat-field battle, July 2, 1863; one of the bloodiest battles of the war between the states.
“Harvest of death” photograph by Timothy H. O’Sullivan of Union dead.
a crumpled milk carton
discarded…fallen
in the gutter, another
black and white photograph
a tooth fairy smile-
something missing,..
a coldness
from the shuttered window
in the shadows
of a quiet day
Xavier doesn’t play here anymore.
i still straddle the fence on this
immigration reform manifesto
i see both sides of the story
it’s good to have the grandfather clause
for the immigrants in my bloodstream
– the scrappy scots-irish-ingles-welsh
in me – but too late for the cherokee
behind the old fences of history.
it isn’t all black and white
the choke-hold of history
shades of red and brown
paint the scenery, too
the documented imagery
forgotten in the fray
a little big horn playing mournful
songs as the cavalry marches on
to the tune of galleons and guns
no passport required
when the port was young
émigré and immigrant
displacing native sons
who also once were pilgrims
breathing in the sun.
artifacts arranged
chronologically –
flint and wood
allied with cordage –
sharp-edged bronze and iron
– a skull with cut marks
beside a copper
-tipped alloy bullet
on the shelf between
war and peace
and anthropology –
an anthology
– details emerge
in the painting
– killing is our nature
and dying
– a still life.
a learning experience
– the detailed
timing and precision
– a certain etiquette
in the rise and fall
of hands and feet
i learned the walk
– mirrored on the toe
of a spit-shined boot
shooting imaginary doves
in white gloves –
the proper fold
of the cloth
– tight and taught
with stars above
the tri-fold – not
a trifling thing we’re told
the color of a mother’s tears
and grip of a father’s grief –
the why in the cry of a child
– sad song of the bugler
on a windswept hill
standing in the detail.
Sometimes I say
the kind of words
that should never
touch my breath
Unkind words
better left unsaid
• I bullet them
• for maximum effect
• when they find the mark
I always aim
for the heart
but they end up
bouncing around
inside my head
and exiting
my size 9.5
steel-toed boot
instead.
It only takes one bullet to kill a king
But you can’t kill a dream
The talk is talked
And the walk is walked today
It’s a shame the bridge is named
for a hood who wore a hood
The good General turned grand
in the land and time of dragons
that feasted on Sundays
and still would
if we let them
Or maybe not
Maybe it’s a fitting reminder
A bridge to a kinder
gentler place
Because we’re better than that now
Aren’t we
3/8/15
