insatiable
i thought i was used to the dull ache of hunger;
something you’d never endured.
i have not felt so full
until you were starved for me.
i thought i was used to the dull ache of hunger;
something you’d never endured.
i have not felt so full
until you were starved for me.
She’s pregnant now.
Like a worried pinball
Within this aging brain
The ethics play out.
Despite my impotence
To influence the blessing
I sit and cut bait
Like the busy honey bee
That purred in someone’s ear.
They say a cat litter can
Have three or four daddies
Represented with pride,
Each Mama a virgin goddess.
They say it’s not a miracle.
I look in your cold cash eyes,
Mama. Inscrutable. Nothing that
Happens now will be a miracle,
More likely predictable
I told you so’s.
Mother Earth and Father Sky were once clasped
–an embrace of violence–
The squall of their separation was equally
relief
and
despair.
I drempt that you and I
sat together on the surface of the moon.
Our hands and feet were chalky—
lips parted,
eyes bright,
as we gazed out at the stars
we could no longer view
on earth.
Busyness by daylight
dreading the night
sleep eludes me
for thoughts of he
No dream
to unburden the ache
to relive the give and take
of our coffee and cream
Blackness invades my sleep
shortchanging my keep
waking to relive my loss
again and again I toss
A year down the line
he comes to me with wine
and a dance
as I weep at a chance
To open my heart
cracking the light.
I sing to America,
rise! for your bones are not yet ash.
They tremble, but they do not break.
The pain you carry is heavy as a planet
but you no longer carry it alone. Let our voices
lift you in song! Let our cries and
harmonies of rage rise you into the sky!
I sing to America,
(the quiet people living in peace)
rise! for your streets are flooded
with the blood of your brothers and sisters.
There is no room for silence when we all
have our weight to carry, when that same weight
was carried
by thousands before me, so that my
ancestors too could live in peace.
The ghosts of the souls we have lost beckon us
to the streets. We have no choice but to
rise! and cast the metals of suffering
into spearheads of justice!
We’re making a garden,
Constructing planters from scrap wood
And furniture I made poorly
Although I meant well
And worked with love In my heart.
I will pry it apart
And make a thing infinitely simple
And more useful:
A place for things to grow,
A means of nourishing you.
