New song
There’s a wind in your eyes that blows
Across the high plains of the world,
Whispering the stories of soon to be forgotten
Dead men and women who no longer
Worship at the feet of boddhisattvas.
Then you tell me your name,
And how it is said in your village.
Like the spirits called forth for
The dalai lama’s trance
I learn that you have no last name.
You are just as you are.
You are the one who sits at a table of fried eggs
Across from pretend italian pasta,
The one who stands firm on the soil of her ancestors,
The one who won’t forget.
You are the new song
That sings the world.
Return the bees
You have hidden behind the daisies
Where the bees cry,
Where the heavy footsteps
Of lines of passersby
Cannot reacb you.
And though your tears have become thunder
Calling out the vultures
Who claim you as their own
Just for having seen you,
This shattered night you hide
Behind the daisies and the words
Of those who have gazed at the sun too long.
You, earth mother, have hidden your love
So that the bees may return once more.
Wake up
When I’m lying in my bed
And the cold comes from behind the curtains,
The duvet fluffed up like an arctic fox
Burrows me from the morning
And calls dreams of another time
When the rain smelled of running rivers
And leaves smiled at the sun
Whose essence distilled in dew drops
Greeted the forest floor,
When there was no me.
But this morning it’s another day,
Of chimpanzees grinning as they
Eat each other’s souls,
And cover their ground in a plastic web
Made of oil and coal.
But today I shall let go of the stories I’m told,
When I shall drop my wooden bucket
On the ground, and look all around
At all that isn’t me.
Today is the day, I shall free myself from
All thoughts of me and you.
Stolen
You took my heart and put it in a museum,
Replaced the hangings on the walls
And the coal fired stoves
With microwaves and lies
On the 6 o’clock news.
Even after 6 generations you
Still sound like snakes hissing
With forked tongues.
The rope around my father’s neck
Made from decades of rubbish and dog shit
Left on the streets
Has stolen the ground upon which I stand.
This, is all in the name of land,
Which is now yours.
5 limbs
She waits upon the moon-washed sand.
Clothed in storms and fires and
The drowning shores,
Clothed in our waste,
She has come
That we may become the sea
And the skies and the land.
She has come to sing
That we may take her by the hand
And know her once more.
With my book of notes,
Scattered like birds on a washing line.
Soft white hands on hard white keys,
Dancing two four, three four, four four.
Lost in rhythm and feeling
That settles not this savage soul.
Drunk by my own performance.
My time.
But not a tear.
The therapist looked on smiled,
Calling forth more
As I remembered the rubber hose,
Being beat against my back,
And a mother that screamed
Of the wrong being done
Against her child.
Depressed.
No matter
How
Deep
I go
,
There is
Nothing to be found.
Meth
Is anyone deeper than
The barbecue of
Ideas they smoked
For breakfast