Midst of the Gale

It drains us, the cruelty
Prejudice seeping up from
Under stacks of paper
Compassion folded tight
Into a wallet, & squashed

Exhausted tears cannot
Sustain life; we lean heavily
Against each other’s shoulders
Palms in an island tempest
Grown weary
Grown suspicious

A plague gnaws the very land
Our trunks anchor to
Without it,
Where can we go?

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Talk of the Killing

We’re quiet but becoming irate, quite tired of the world,
of the bustling brash humans on display, if only for each other.

Stop the nonsense, the violence, the bloodshed for the sake
of shedding blood. There’s enough blood flooding the streets,
lining the cradles of our children’s dreams. I am a peaceful one.

I come with the silence, when the dying lay down and the living rise up
with names in their mouths to meet the dawn, armed with pens and paper.

Join us in looping cursive, in the dusty rooms lit by candlelight.
Join hands across tables and graves, make room for the anger and pain.
Tell us why the killing has come again.

Spill your stories into our ears.
We are here to listen, to hear, and to see– to truly see you.

When I said “thank you”

Enduring Freedom

Photo from wikipedia.com

When I said “thank you”, I meant:
I can’t picture watching a friend
bleeding in the sand, split six feet,
head bruised or red, spilling.
I meant thank you for being willing,
thank you for not telling me
war is a good thing.
I meant I am sorry for all this loss.
I meant I wish your psyche wasn’t
wounded, your dreams weren’t tumultuous
and unending. I meant we should bear this
as a country, not as an army of one.
I meant I do not wish I had been there,
but there is no way for me to understand
otherwise. I meant aside from politics,
person to person, just two souls sharing,
I hope you find peace.
I meant I hope for healing.
I meant this all but could only say “thank you”.