How
Someday
It may come
To us.
And
If it does not come
In this lifetime
We may be hopeful
For the next.
When he tells me
This story
I look
Deep
Into my beloved’s
Ear.
It is a finely
Curved
Surprisingly
Small
Fleshy-on-the-
Lower-outside
Miracle.
On the inside
Hairy, growing its own
Wax
It can hear!
A love of bodies
Sweeps
Over me.
And of
Soul.
Why the War You Have in Mind (Yours and Mine) Is Obsolete
The brain
Though encased
In separate
Heads
Is
One brain.
Dropping a bomb
On
One head
Or one million
Is perceived
By all the rest
(Of brain, if not of heads)
To be a
Threat
Not
Definitely not
So smart
It is
An end.
Projection
To start
You must divulge
Not a secret
But a thing
Not commonly
Known:
That at the back
Of each human’s eyeballs
Resides the image
Of a little child.
It is the world
Child
& it sits
There
Gravely, looking
Out
Of
Our
Eyes
Waiting
For us
To
Understand.
So tell him this
First of all.
Then
When he says
Those Indians
Are remote
Savages, who do not deserve
Their own forest
Tell him: All the children of the Earth
Are perfect.
When he says: Those Germans
& their ovens
Tell him: Like clouds, or grains of sand, all the children of
the Earth
Are perfect.
When he says
Those rotten Arabs
& their
Women in
Bedsheets
You tell him: All the children of the Earth
Are perfect.
When he says
Those Chinese
& their
Femicide
You say: Like the feet of Jesus, the eyelashes of
the Buddha, all the children of the Earth
Are perfect.
It is our Life Work
To liberate across the planet
The world child
Who always
Lives
Behind
Our eyeballs
Imprisoned
In the only
Image (our own)
We can
(Sometimes)
See.
This poem expands to hold almost all countries and
nationalities: When he says
Those Israelis & their
Concentration Camps
Those Americans &
Their Genocide
Those Africans &
Their holocausts
You still say: All the children
Of the Earth
Are
Perfect.
When You Look
You do not want
To believe
Someone
Who tells
You
When you look
At the sky
That you see
A place
With couches
For the weary
& thronelike
Chairs of rest.
Someone, serene, saved
Playing listless harp.
Many of the formerly
Fallen
Well fed
Jolly at last
Driving
White
Cadillacs.
You do not need
To believe
Someone who does not
Want it known
That heaven
Is a matter
Not of inventing
Glory
But of recognizing
It.
That the blue sky with its
Sunsets &
Clouds
Is simply
Beautiful. And that is enough.
You do not need to follow
Someone who
Does not want it known
That we are all
Equal to God
If we keep
Our eyes
(And our hearts)
Open.
The Tree
The Tree
The tree
Was so large
I could not see
The top of it
So wide I could not see
The ends
Of it.
It was the world
Tree
& it had
Presented itself
To me.
José the shaman
Said:
My people used
To dream
A tree
All of us
Together. We
Dreamed
The same
Tree.
It reached from
Heaven to earth
Earth to heaven
And it sang.
But now
He said
Our people are
Dying
Many are sick
Many are scattered
The rainforest
Is being
Cut down.
The tree does
Not come
To us
It does not
Sing
To us
Anymore.
But it has
Come
Perhaps
To me
I said
& told him
About the tree.
It was so large
I do not know
How
It managed
To get
Inside my dream.
Though it did not
Sing
Except
In
Awesomeness.
Now I understand
& said this
To
José: Though it is the world tree
& larger than the world
It was afraid to sing aloud.
It was looking
For shelter
Even in
My
Small space.
The Climate of the Southern Hemisphere
The climate
My body
Appreciates
Has
Moisture
& has
Sun
My hair
In this climate
Bushes out
My nails
Turn sleek
& smooth
My lips
Never crack
My bones
Never ache.
We are made
For each other
The Southern
Hemisphere’s climate
& me.
The joy of sweating
Of eating fruit
Handpicked
From cool &
Patient
Trees
The warmth
Of the earth
—& I know
I do not want
A casket—
That promises
To melt
All of me
Someday
Into
Its verdant
Self.
In this climate
The smell
Of ants
Is the scent
Of rain.
Just so
(Only here)
Are important messages
Delivered.
Where Is That Nail File? Where Are My Glasses? Have You Seen My Car Keys?
Nothing is ever lost
It is only
Misplaced
If we look
We can find
It
Again
Human
Kindness.
My Ancestors’ Earnings
My Ancestors’ Earnings
For over a decade
My ancestors
Earned for me
Over a
Million dollars
A year.
With our righteous loot
We bought
For me
Every house
We truly
Loved
Every car
& work
Of art in earlier times
(Laboring, laboring
Over uncleared fields
& kitchen floors
That had no end)
Drenched in
Sweat
We were
Denied.
Now, sated
We rest.
Looking about us
We see
We have been feeding
The little
Child
Who wanted Things
For several
Centuries
& did not
Have them.
Wanted a mother
Separate
From her enslavement
Whether by field
Domestic service
Or her own art
Wanted a world
Cut off
From
Its
Woes
Wanted
In two words
Pleasure
Security.
But now begins
The downward
Slide.
It will all
Be over
Soon
All the wanting
Of this thing
& that
That drives
This plane.
I can let go.
Of houses
& of cars
Of art
& of
Artifacts. No material
Object
Will seem
Of relevance
Anymore.
I can let go!
Free-falling into
The very
Arms
That held me as
I shopped, the very arms
That worked
The broom
The machete
& the hoe.
My Friend Yeshi
My friend Yeshi
One of the finest
Midwives
Anywhere
Spent a whole
Season
Toward
The middle
Of her life
Wondering
What to do
With herself.
I could not
Understand
Or even
Believe
Her quandary.
Now
Thank goodness
She is over it.
Women come to her
Full
Babies drop
To her
Hand.
It is all
Just the way
It is.
Sometimes
Life seizes
Up
Nothing stirs
Nothing flows
We think:
Climbing
This rough
Tree
All the time
The rope looped
Over
A rotten
Branch!
We think:
Why did I choose
This path
Anyway?
Nothing at
The end
But sheer cliff
& rock-filled
Sea.
We do not know
Have no clue
What more
Might come.
It is the same
Though
With Earth:
Every day
She makes
All she can
It is all
She knows it is all
She can possibly
Do.
And then, empty, the only
Time She is flat, She thinks: I am
Used up. It is winter all the time
Now. Nothing much to do
But self-destruct.
But then,
In the night, in
The darkness
We love so much
She lies down
Like the rest of us
To sleep
& angels come
As they do
To us
& give her
Fresh dreams.
(They are really always the old ones, blooming further.)
She rises, rolls over, gives herself a couple of new kinds of
grain, a few dozen unusual flowers, a playful spin on the
spider’s web called the internet.
Who knows
Where the newness to old life
Comes from?
Suddenly
It appears.
Babies are caught by hands they assumed were always
waiting.
Ink streaks
From the
Pen
Left dusty
On
The shelf.
This is the true wine of astonishment:
We are not
Over
We are.
Ancestors to Alice
Forget about trying
To keep all
The pretty houses
Going;
These are only
The toys
We gave you
Because
In you
We felt
We deserved
To play.
Enough. We
Have grown up
Living on
Here
In the so-called
Afterlife.
Your true work
Is to
Remember us
To sing our names
Recount
Or even record
Our deeds
Laugh at
Our jokes.
Your true work
Is to notice
The big feet
Of the
95-year-old
Midwife
From Alabama
To feel
In your body
How long
She has
Stood
On them.
To hold them
In your hands
Stroking &
Soothing
Until
You
Can rest.
One of the Traps
One of the worst traps
Is finding yourself
Despising someone
Really good.
There they are
Wearing a miniskirt
Talking dirty
But washing
The filthy
Feeding the hungry
Defending
The poor
Befriending the dead
&nbs
p; & all you can
Say in your
Defense
Is
Their bleached hair
& studded
Nostril
Hardly goes
With so much
Leg.
Not Children
Not Children
War is no
Creative response
No matter
The ignorant
Provocation
No more
Than taking
A hatchet
To your
Stepfather’s
Head
Is
Not to mention
Your husband’s.
It is something
Pathetic
A cowardly
Servant
To base
Emotions
Too embarrassing
To be spread out
Across the
Destitute
Globe.
The only thing
We need
Absolutely
To leave
Behind
Crying
Lonely
In
The dust.
You Can Talk
You can talk about
The balm in Gilead
But what about
The balm
Right
Here
What about
The healing of
The wounded heart
When someone
You have harmed
Gleefully
Embraces you?
Goddess
I am so glad
I can recognize
A goddess
When I see one.
There is Yeshi’s
Trustworthiness
Glenna’s
Patience
Sue’s willing helpfulness (& genius)
Zelie’s
Wild
Laughter
& song
Evelyn’s
Loyalty
Diana’s equanimity
Ruth’s incredible
Storytelling
& inexplicable
Suffering.
The scent of
My mother’s
Roses.
Is heart
Wisdom alone
To see this
Not—the added blessing—
Eyes.
Why War Is Never a Good Idea
(A Picture Poem for Children
Blinded in War)
Though War speaks
Every language
It never knows
What to say
To frogs.
Picture frogs
Beside a pond
Holding their annual