Wanted Alive, Not Dead

He knew his blood must fall to earth like red
dew from heaven on leaves of corn. This debt
due he had to pay. The community
he loved would thrash him like wheat all along
the route—whips with nails; needle punctures; feet
fists thudding on yellow flesh; curses hurled.

This torment he must endure for their sake.
Cross Keys wanted to know the origins—
dust storming brigands on horseback hacking
away at white flesh—men, women, children.

He needed a scribe to re-mark pages—
tales dispersed at home & afar—a means
for his reentry to the human fold.
His vision of Christ was unforgiving.

20 October 2006

*   *   *   *   *

Long Live the Birds

We travel in the dark of the moon, weighed
down by traditions—twisted, falsified
while the ideologies of bombs burst
deconstructing body & bricks in smoke.
More nothingness sinks into the cold hearts
of those crying we make peace with power.

Who remembers Atlanta, Coventry,
or Fallujah after the screen goes black—
the souls, the dear lives we reduce to ruins?
Even as the newscaster counts the dead,

those leveled by bullets & canon fire
the birds continue to sing—Mockingbird
chatters on, sparrows remain playful, crows
rally. Buzzards peck morsels. Champagne flows.

21 October 2006

*   *   *   *   *

Mules & Men

We remain in the traces, inside drawn
lines, proscribed avenues for refueling—
where our liberation scenarios
leave us dreaming of a brighter future.
The phases of the moon, movement of clouds,
sparrows on fire escapes go unnoted.

This is the way of the world, they tell us.
Bridles hung upon wooden pegs—for hours,
days, weeks, months . . . as we romp on a grassy
hill—are concessions as well as choices.

Maybe this drafted life is what freedom
is for we who live on the borders, or
sleep on cold pavement of skyscrapers, or
hold our pants in hand outside palaces.

22 October 2006

*   *   *   *   *

Of Things Unseen

Those lay judges who murder the spirit

behind crooked smiles in elevated chairs

make us nervous, angry. We won’t pile

them on burning pyres for Utopia.

We’re not frightened of storms, however dark.

The winds may gather us up, as they will

like sheets & towels, shirts & pants pinned to

a clothes line. Our lives are undiminished.

Like the earth & moon our orbit is fixed

within the variations of seasons.

Let come what may. Our liberation is

certain. We won’t always be troubled with

two minds trapped in dark odiferous ships.

Our bold soundings will fracture this cosmos.

23 October 2006

*   *   *   *   *

Talking Bones

Susquehanna trees boast the foliage of autumn—

mellow yellow, bright orange, deep reds on green

—as we cross thrice over its languorous

route to the sea. We rumble through forests

on rails laden with crowds & skyscrapers

to the slow, quiet gait of deer on dry leaves.  

For two days I hobbled out to Flatbush

& then back to Times Square’s flashing neon.

I wove through broad avenues of tourists

to catch the A Train to Schomburg’s Harlem.

In black space interludes of spooks & ghosts

I meditate on these underworld scenes—

historical freaks . . . dreadful skeletons—

& how tongues are the cause of our journeys.

24 October 2006

*   *   *   *   *

Everlasting Bursting Plums

My mother’s yard flowers are blooming red

& white in this chilled autumn noonday sun

as fallen leaves fly about in the wind.

My brown eyes embrace this rugged beauty.

Our hardy folk haunting is not yet dead.

The swan songs of its death came far too soon.

True, the pyramids of sawdust . . . their smoke

are now only “an everlasting song.”

But the purple bark of profligate pines,

sprayed needles . . . golden horizons remain.

Our “changing same” with its African mask

delights us yet as a vibrant difference.

We still can be “a force for real good” like

Trane’s hoodoo-filled tunes in “A Love Supreme.”

25 October 2006

*   *   *   *   *

Monsters in the Bell Horn

Puffed white clouds & autumn leaves are absent

in the rhythmic silences of our dreamscapes.

Dust, smoke, fumes, concrete sirens & red lights

drive us behind locked doors & drawn curtains.

Fat notes for condos expand, while freedom

screeches globally. Dancing in the street

occurs only in scenes of firing guns

with curses, tearful dirges dressed in black.

Mule teams of raging revenge chorus youth

as gray hairs cast & finger deadly bombs.

We’re a live audience for programmed pain

that mutes our creative dreams & visions.

This daily waste . . . minstrelsy for pensions—

these price tags on our ax can be peeled off.

26 October 2006