you’ve threaded your dreams
through hope’s eye of a needle
with tomorrow’s yarns
but what if they’re moth-eaten
broken by death’s slightest pull
life
apparition…
whisper those night words
words of your unending love
let me dream again
recalling…
a spring walk
a country church
meadows brushed with wind
youth choir voices of praise
sermon short and sweet
picnic after prayers
eyes of a first love
unintentional…
these final moments
as i walk my life’s crime scene
complicity’s found
national derailments…
aunt bea
was preparing dinner
when
i stopped by
this evening
she was listening
to
a npr program
about
washington
i told her
i personally
had been
having
difficulty
listening to anything
regarding
the new
washington
blowhard
and
got a rather
sick feeling
even when
his name
was mentioned
i said
to aunt bea
how can you listen to that stuff
she smiled
and
said
there’s an old
trinidadian
saying
the whistle don’t pull the train
hidden in the tall grass…
a young man
from
a neighboring village
came
to ask
bapa dola
how it was
that strangers
to his village
could see
the solution
to problems
that had
confronted the elders
for years
surely
the young man
said
the visitors
must be
wise men
full
of knowledge
bapa dola
said
perhaps
it is not
knowledge
but
the willingness
to
see what is really there
and
to not deny the truth
for
often we hear
but
do not listen
see
but
do not
perceive
forged in fire…
ancient olive tree
planted by the hands of god
man has cut you down
to fuel fires of hubris wars
forging hate’s eternal ring
