Do not suffer the suffering to speak
Their words have a habit of earthquakes
Each syllable a fissure
Laying waste any doubt
The earth will groan her judgment
Justice only needs a mouth

Do not let the wounds of the innocent bleed
Their blood is a cornucopia of life
Each drop a fertile seed
In time will yield its song
The earth will spring up children
New life from where life’s gone

Do not attempt to break the broken
Their scars never seem to fade
And when they rise
For they will surely rise
And you meet them face-to-face
Your artwork bears their testimony
They have no need to speak

In the park there is a bench
Polished coffee metal planks
The inscription reads:
“In loving memory of Alan Seltman.”
And speaks its invitation
With arms wider than I can be
The tree buds are waking
And the breeze finds equilibrium
With the dimming sun’s kiss
I sit
If not for the grumbling of my feet
Or the fleeting picturesque
Then because Alan should be remembered
As one who always offered rest

she wails
estranged
my unknown mother
tears on the Kenyan graves
i feel her from my corners
a thread pulled taut
from the web
of my citizen soul

He is a fool
who, when the sky is lit
in the morning dew,
scowls at Spring
and shrugs.
She is immutable.
Brimming with chances
and hard won charm,
not a tremor in her voice.
She is singing.
Always singing
that honeysuckle song.
He is a fool
who misconstrues his gravity.
Ignorant of his orbit,
trying to tilt the world.
She is unruffled,
and he will roll off her back,
smooth as the mallard,
washing his face
in the sunrise pond.