let them see
the way of knowledge themselves
teach them to read and to aspire;
male and female, brother and sister
strangers
the privileged and the children of the streets -
teach them to observe, to speak and to dream
teach them the ways of piercing
beyond the confines

be it each child’s unquestioned right
be it enshrined in the laws and in your statutes
be it inscribed on your City Gates
and in your Hearts and Minds;
let each sit to the sounds of the words and meaning
let each decipher, think and interpret
let each be empowered, guided but not circumscribed
let each explore and discover and capture the voices
and dreams in the very air about them
bring to them the means and the new and the old
regardless of one’s origin and history
each child, male and female
let there not be want and lack of means
let each be fearless
do not hold back any
let none be neglected
and let them be the heirs
to our world -
to freedom,
inquiry and exploration…
let each child live fully the life of the mind

call me autumn
i'll be the giant pile of crunchy red-brown leaves for you to jump in
i'll be the ugly sweater you love so much that you pull out on the first cold day
i'll be the pumpkin that you dredge out the insides of and carve a jack-o-lantern face on

call me winter
i'll be the christmas morning that greets you with a heap of presents under a twinkling tree
i'll be the warm cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows after you come in from the snow
i'll be the groundhog that assures you there will be an early spring to end your wintertime blues

call me spring
i'll be the umbrella you dig out of your trunk that keeps you dry in the unexpected storm
i'll be the large cup of coffee that stays up with you through all-nighters before finals
i'll be the first flower you see in bloom after a long and cold winter

call me summer
i'll be the rays of sunshine that tan your flawless skin
i'll be the cold shower you take cause that bloody air conditioner is broken again
i'll be the hammock that you lay on as you stargaze and think about all the galaxies that stream above

Secrets To My Brother's Farm

"Before you run off to the chores,
I have a secret you must learn,"
And so the messages are passed
On how to operate this tractor or that truck,
Which I, the visitor, must discern.

"This tractor's clutch will soon go out,
Unless you heed these words,
Keep rpm just high enough, but not too much...
Idle her down before you slip the clutch."

"The key won't work in the old pickup,
Just pull up the knob there on the dash,
Then give the coat hanger wire a pull
until the engine fires...oh...did you check the tires?"

"Oh, while we're at it, see that old truck?
It doesn't like to start on the first try
So turn it over a couple times for luck
And then she'll start and never die."

"The air compressor switch is gone,
so plug it in to make it go, but first
Be sure to drain the tank, or it won't run,
The motor's tired and and has to have an easy start."

"The tires on the trailer need more air,
Especially the left one in the back,
Slow leak is all it is, but if it goes,
A newer tube's up on the rack."

"The loader's got a special wire
That you must clip to get the alternator charging,
(And if you ever do forget, the ire
You'll feel when the wires start to burning.")

"This cow's alright, but don't forget,
To feed her last in her own bunk;
She likes to fight, and we'll need the vet,
If others crowd her to a funk."

"Don't lean on that, or you'll get hurt;
I've meant all spring to nail it."

"The handle broke, so you have to get out
By rolling down the window."

"Watch out! The guard is off that thing;
It'll take your arm just quick!"

"Turn the key and let it spin, not once, but twice;
Then wait a second and she'll run."

"Be sure to shut the gas valve off,
Or it'll drain out on the ground."

"No brakes, so drive her carefully.
Keep it in a lower gear, and need be,
Hit something cheap."

"Two scoops only is the limit
You'll make her sick with more."

"Be sure to double-wire the gate;
The cattle will get out."

"We save the egg shells for the garden;
We never throw away what we could use."

So many secrets to remember,
I sure could use a list.
What I get when I suggest?
A look equivalent to a hiss.

The fan trundles and swirls
The warmly stagnant air,
And the hot beads of
Mississippi humidity
Curl into coolness under
Its influence,
Making it possible for me
To breathe.
Still, I do not sleep.

Under the ceiling,
the darkness is draped over my bed,
And it is so blue
That it seems calculated to soothe,
Like an old-fashioned ether
Sent to put me under.
But I do not yield
To this darkness,
Morpheus' shroud.
Still, I do not sleep.

And the seventeen-year cicadas,
With whose parents I was born,
They croon like a croaking siren,
And fade in and out like
A blaring summer dream,
Yet, under their static,
I am still painfully lucid,
And ever-agonizingly awake.
Still, I do not sleep.

My bed is empty,
but for me.
I lay in it alone.
In the cool air,
Under the darkness,
Muffled in hums,
I hug the empty atmosphere.
You have taught me what
An empty bed means.
Still, still, still,
The night is greatly still.
And
Still, still, still, still, still
Still, I do not sleep.

Hand to face
Stubble and skin
Sunny outside
Summer again

Ocean breeze
Warm air
We held hands
Tried not to stare

Trying so hard to go unseen,
like the chilling wind
which fills the air,
but still creates goosebumps up my spine.
Coming and going
like the soft ocean waves,
always leaving a trail
of sweet destruction behind.
Leading me in the right direction,
like the mysterious
but prominent footprints
in the sand.
Parts of you I take with me
everywhere I go,
like the soggy sand left in my shoes,
and the coconut lotion scent
on my pale skin.

I. Antietam Near Dunker’s Church

In the background, behind a row of dead
and their silenced canon,
a small white clapboard building,
former haven for Anabaptists
forbidden to wear the uniform
of any country’s army,
is now a makeshift field hospital.

I am walking slowly toward it.
Halfway up the gentle slope
the metallic smell of blood fills the air
and I can hear the moans and cries of grief
for lost limbs.

II. In Devil’s Den

It’s not a photograph but a moment of history
stolen from a world gone horribly mad
one hot afternoon in July.

Near Devil’s Den at the foot of Little Round Top
standing by a scattering of stunned men,
I stare disbelievingly into Rock Creek
which, on this day, runs red
beside an orchard of plums.

III. A Sharpshooter’s Last Sleep

He lies still on a mattress of cool earth
as if he has fallen asleep
with one knee bent and one arm
curled above his head
the way he might have lain
at home in his own bed.

Leaves of a mulberry stir in the morning air.
The sounds of battle have faded to nothing.
If I could kneel down with my ear close to his,
I might hear his mother’s voice
calling him to morning chores before breakfast.
But she can not rouse him from this dream
which refuses to end.

A reflective pattern that god could have painted himself.
Etched on to the edge of sanity, around the curvature of the radio.
Spiced elegantly with the blossoming sparks of burning ash.
Cascading into the sky that withheld no stars.

Slowly implementing the fact that the reflection of the moon was much too overwhelming.
How the strumming of one guitar by Johnny Cash would conglomerate a collection of hopes and memories.
I closed my eyes and smiled a smile that was genuine indifference.
Creating a barrier of sadness and enjoyment all in the same milliseconds as the other.
Battling to take control of my ideals slowly.

Swiftly mocking me with a plethora of destructive creation.
That radiant gesture that I can't avoid knowingly.
Something alike the beauty of the sun paved into the concrete of life.
Although, much more temperate.
Though, just as glorious.

It's a decision that I'm unhappy making.
But is going to have to be made.
Talking of stories that I've got to chance to one-up.
Probably why the whole terminology came into it's fiery existence.

Ins spite of having no water left from which to drink.
I'll wait and watch as the thirst-less quench themselves.
Whilst I save every drop of the seconds that were taken.
For there are many.

About 49 hours.
Was a good estimate.
Of the flourishing god like substance that was the air around me.
Which is something I cherished.

Though must give up.  
It's not a game I'm playing.
So I spoke it angrily stern.
"If you try that, I'll end you."

For even though my time has passed.
I will not let the future be represented by the stories told.
As in the chords I strummed slowly for three hours straight.
How the callouses on my fingertips are enveloped with singing pain that was ever so worth it.

The flames that warmed me and my soul just enough to sing.
To sing a song I didn't know, but knew already.
How the words came to my lips and exited steadily.
Of how the reflection of the moon was to much to handle.
Where one gesture was as glorious as the sun.

How in that meaning the simplified fact remains there.
Entangled in my sleeping bag and in my hair.
How it doesn't seem to get out.
Wanting to scream and flail and run about.

That's why the scent of alcohol was oh so pleasing.
In my mind.
Never came around to devour it.
But it was there.
All because of one thing.
One meaning.
One person.
One simple term.
One subject.
One game.
One time.
One fire.
When I heard "Maybe"