Links to articles that inspired this piece listed at the end.
Time reaches across
cold decades of Decembers,
whispering of you
in me,
of me
in her,
of me
entwined
between
you and her
within those eight days
of December
containing
ghosts of ghost
cells
there dwells
somewhere
inside Time’s touch,
understanding.
winds carried the dusty remains
of a nation across the land
burying bleeding women
in breeding graves
dug by their slave masters
who thought to teach them
of their homespun place
woven in a tapestry
of chains
the remains devoid
of time’s progressive thread
that once contained
something more
than the prison
of being named property
Times of shattered glass
herald the approaching dark
Crone of a world war.
At night, soldiers come
children cry out, glass shards of fear
crushed into their skin
If we do nothing--
slaves we become, breathing out
blood drops of a dream,
emptied of promise
held within springtime blossoms
of “a more perfect union”
A barren tree stands tall and strong across the street.
I see it weekly on days I volunteer.
It’s naked limbs waving on windy days.
High up, in the crux where two branches meet,
sits a large, empty nest. Too large for small Avian visitors.
Not a home for sparrows or finches, surely.
Built by crows or grackles or large jays, perhaps--
The nest sits, stable and empty,
as if a child took a large dark brown Sharpie
and drew a circular blob
when asked to draw a bird’s nest
on a page featuring an outline of a tree.
Its emptiness captures me. Mirrors me.
It stood, providing shelter for the young
growing there.
Now, abandoned by the young
it once sheltered,
the adult birds, no longer of use,
have abandoned it as well--
Each having traveled on their way.
Yet the nest survives--
Empty,
except for the glue of memory
attaching it to the tree--
As I am emptied
of the young
I once sheltered.
The words, the words--
They rattle in my head,
louder than
the tail of a snake,
louder than
the breaking of stacked billiard balls,
louder than
the concussing jack hammer on a city street--
too much noise to hear distinctly
what must be written,
what must be said, screamed
into the foul fiery smoke-filled air
One word, one.
Just one, larger than the others,
louder—
settles against my skin,
a lash of fiery noise,
burning, burning deep--
betrayal--
burning away tiny scars
of other betrayals
a lifetime ago
This wildfire of betrayal
burns away
soul held beliefs
of common good.
(Revised from 2016 on the eve of our 2024 election)
The captain of industry gleefully looks to history
As a populous forgets all the tales of prophecy
While writhing in the seduction of blame and lies.
Thus, all the best in humanity is left behind.
Firing squads, internment camps, and torture now promised.
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.
The angry populous forgets
The path of anger makes the “world blind.”
Yes, the captain says to let the horsemen ride.
The sun dons a robe of sackcloth, grieving.
The ocean’s rasping last breath,
As the moon’s face rained blood tears,
Turning rivers red.
Yes, the captain bellowed, “Let the horsemen ride.”
Six bodies,
Six bodies—
Fifteen minutes later,
six bodies forgotten
in the collected dust
of memory upon the world.
Six souls passed away,
imprisoned from the light of God.
The sky shrinks away
from the edge of earth
as the six join 1139.
I did not know any of them.
Not one soul.
I did not have a friend, a neighbor,
a brother, a sister,
a father, a mother, a cousin,
an aunt, an uncle,
no son, no daughter
among them.
But I mourn them,
as if I knew them,
as if they were family.
I feel the empty spot
they left upon leaving the world.
You ask me why I feel their loss so…
My answer—because I am human.
In return, I ask…Why do you not feel it so?
No answers found
in the mocking caw of crows
who laugh at humanity.
I
“The pen is mightier than the sword,”
Bulwer-Lytton wrote long ago.
Words, with strength enough
to repel the bullets violently vomited
by rapid fire weapons of wars
not being fought on this soil, in this land,
in these schools,
abandon me.
My words have no power.
I cannot weave a bulletproof shield
of words to protect my grandchildren
from this earth they will inherit:
where four-year-old preschoolers
practice active shooter drills,
beginning their journey of learning
of how to live without innocence:
We created a skin of fear
into which they are born,
and now, we teach them to live
inside that skin of fear
with lockdown drills, metal detectors, and
lessons in barricading classroom doors,
as we wait for the hollowness
of thoughts and prayers
and good guys with guns
to save us all.
With what voices,
with what words
will we speak
in answer--
when our ghost children rise
to ask us why
we did not save them.
The swallowtail paid a visit this morning,
a flutter of striped wings,
tipped itself in hello
as we sipped coffee
and looked up from our morning paper.
We smiled at the swallowtail then each other.
You swear it is the transformed caterpillar
we rescued from certain death
as it hung from the dog’s lip
and then tenderly placed
in safety on the gourd vine leaves
growing by the wood pile.
I do not know. It could very well be.
It is beautiful in its flight.
Its morning joyful greeting of belonging,
of having found its place.
These mornings are life here with you.
Image is my own
Sitting here in New Mexico and looking at these mountains, I wonder if my mother ever heard the mountains of Appalachia sing as I do these.
The mountains sing their history--
of when they knew only tranquility
in the land of their ancient salt seas,
when the sun could not touch them,
when they were virgin still--
safe from the rough hands of the wind,
long before the rise of humanity.
Their song holds the rhythms,
the bars, the layers of the time before--
before an angry molten core,
containing not a single drop of mercy,
drove them from their ancient, peaceful home,
forcing them to be refugees in the kingdom
of sun and wind.
Their song holds the rhythms
of all they grieve
in witnessing humanity’s rise,
dripping in eternal inhumanity.
At the feet of the mountains, the lilacs,
nourished by snow melt tears,
bow their heads and dance in the rhythms
of the mountains’ song—
A dance of homage
to such ancient ones.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wITB_k8gX78&list=OLAK5uy_nKHcHbv67IP6facZWpq6ZwAhVrhAxMwQg&index=5
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