she sits on the mountainside she’s been there more years than most can count her beauty and kindness radiate like a desert flower still growing in the harsh sahara sun loved ones have long ago made the journey to heaven some entered the next level freely of old age others were swept up by the anger of tyrants and now she watches as children once held in her arms storm the barricades hoping to taste the sweet waters of the oasis of freedom but she knows many shall not break through and their ashes will join with the sands of others and their voices will wail with the winds in the night
fragmented promises lie on the road yesterday’s despairs such fine confetti for a parade of fools passing down narrow cobblestoned alleys of imagined liberties to a destination advertised by online chatrooms as the new eden where free apples are distributed by secret police for the consumption of weary travellers on this monopoly board road to freedom
out on the street they have decided to cast their votes no paper ballots or hanging chads this time rioto complicate the matter just a large number of warm bodies crowding into a square where their unified voice might be heard but the movement as they call it on the news doesn’t really have a single voice just a unified complaint and if he goes then what freedom or a fragmented group that turns upon itself to feed
as i walked within the burning maze of plague ridden streets staring at statues of dreams deferred reading plaques engraved with now forgotten hopes pondering a god thought dead by political pundits i saw a freshly painted sign dulia
on an old altar
he placed a roman coin
exposed by rain
found among the ruins
for sale
not worth much
the guide said
but authentic
how much i asked
two dinars
but it’s only worth
one dinar
but it was found here
where poor foot soldiers came
offering their wages
for favors in the night
wine and women
the holy sacraments for the lonely
and disciples of poverty
given on a temporary altar of love
a coin that purchased a soul
rather than food for his family
or education for his children
and he asked
why are you crying
because
nothing has changed
at her parent’s home she waits
while he tends to the fire
that forms the
bricks
curtains
furniture
lamps
utensils
all made of
clay
sold
and saved
as a dowry
for his love
who like him
is made
from the same clay
with an understanding
that can only come from
one who has taught children for years
he strove to teach us
the heart beat of tunisia
on clay drums
and we with hands
stuttering to find the magic
of his words
dom tec
dom tec
tec tec dom
move without purposeful rhyme
like those who run our government
as they position for the next election
and they
like us
attempt to match
the teacher’s lead
so as not to call unwanted attention
upon their ineptitude
but to blend into
the flow of others
more skilled
at carrying for what is truly needed
to make this nation’s music
play again in the hearts of those
all around
who need to hear
the sounds of hope
as they wander across
the arid
wasteland of dreams
deferred
and
forgotten
on the salt flats
of political ambition
her eyes spoke to me
words soft and gentle
as if she was my mother
not an old lady
living on some arid hillside
cliff in tunisia
this has been her home
since she embraced her true love
and we
we
were but another set of staring eyes
peering through cameras
capturing disney-like images
for the folks back home
to be discussed over wine and hor d oeurves
noting of course
our ten minute climb to her home
as if it were worthy of a boy scout badge
but long before we entered her portal
she saw us coming
as she peeked out for the next
visit from some group of naive tourists
believing that they were the first to meet her
and capture her image on digital negatives
and so i wondered
why she would grace us with smiles
not the ones programmed to come on
when the visitation switch was thrown
but smiles from deep within her soul
as if greeting an old friend too long gone
her eyes quickly told me why
in this hillside village
little changed day-to-day
the mediterranean sun like her daughter’s visits
rose and set with such regularity
that even a saint would cry tears of boredom
but our futile quest for understanding her life
was a splotch of color on the drab walls of her existence
we were the observed
not the observer
so her eyes danced
and laughed
as she recalled her youth
and the contours of the years in her face
faded from my view
and all i could see
was her dancing on her wedding night
all i could hear
was the pounding of her heart’s passion
and then all i saw
was this beautiful berber woman
as a queen
holding court
in her palace
outside the hotel
at nightfall
sat a woman
in a door way
of a closed shop
sitting alone in the night
on this half deserted street
at the gates of the medina where earlier hundreds
moved with purpose
to lunch appointments
closing business deals
gathering wealth
like bees gather honey
but now they were home
warm and sheltered from the night
but she
she has come out
as if embarrassed to be seen
in the light of day
asking for alms
for her generation
did not do so lightly
only in dire need
would one make such a request
and once no one would have refused
such a call for mercy
for they understood what courage it took
to make such a request
but things are modern now here in tunis
and many do not recall such acts of bravery
but i a foreigner understood this
for i have read their history
and so as i place the coin
into her warm hand
she grasp mine with hers
and i was blessed ten fold
Read Between the Minds 