There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware

I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind

It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side

It's s time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away

We better stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, now, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

In New England
the brisk chill winds
of Autumn stir
the trees to set their
leaves ablaze
in tapestries of crimson
gold and hues of indigo
orange and magenta
that capture
the gaze of the sun
as they soak in
its remaining rays
before the long dark
cloak of winter
settles in

In LA the scorching
turbulent Santa Ana winds
come sweeping across
the deserts
gusting through
mountain passes to
chase the lingering
unwelcome air
to the Pacific
where the sun
melts the gathering
clouds into radiant
embers of amber
fiery red quicksilver
and cobalt blue
to celebrate
the glory of the day
before the calm dark
canopy of night
settles in

If you roll snake eyes
for the come-out
you might be out of luck

But then again the odds
were greater in your favor
so you might just be
turned around

And though it may seem
foolish to bet long after
crapping out
snake eyes can be sneaky
and just might strike again

Because snakes can move
their eyes in whatever
way they choose
they can shift them
forward backward
up and down or just
leave them sideways

And they never blink

They are always lurking
when no one is watching
and even more when
they are cursed

So you might just turn the
odds around again and
count on snake eyes
especially after

You've been bit

It was a day like this,
in March; smiling blue sky,
cheering wind, chill and brisk

A day like this, on the Charles

It was a good day
for sailing, hiking out
side by side, racing upwind
‘til feathers by the bridge
rocked us like babes,
laughing verses of Rimbaud
lamenting Milton
and the Arch-Fiend

We sailed circles round the eights
sculling their way to Henley;
we called them slaves
and gestured like Merry Pranksters

We tacked and jibed, glided downwind,
and on a broad reach, we saw Prufrock
standing on shore, downcast,
as mermaids slipped on board
and sang with us:

A verse for Nausicaa
A chorus for Eidolon

Fate becomes the bitter night,
devours the Dream
bereft of sight,

betrays the Innocent

Who watches still
the Stars that fall
upon the sill.

And yet within
a Spark alights
in search of Meaning
to enflame

the Passion requisite,

that burns with raging Fury
at its Core,
and shreds all contradiction
with its with Scorn

till nothing stands
but might of Will,

Defeats the foe
who kept us still.

Even though
I left milk and cookies
by the fireplace

Santa left me a lump of coal

I was so angry and upset
until I realized
that if I hold it the right way
I can turn it

into a diamond

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

It's more like rustling leaves
from pianissimo
to crescendo
above the tapping
drips of rain
in puddles circling
round the dangling feet
of waterspouts

and the trilling ring
a brassy bell delivers
swinging from the strike
of an opened door  
as dampened shoes
skip shuffle and slide
inside the musty lair
of an old bookstore

all measured by
the syncopated
clapping beat
of hooves
on cobblestone
in time with
carriage wheels
and drumbeat hoods
of rocking cabriolets

He paints from sound
that whistles in the wind
and freefalls from the sky
that bounces in the streets
and whispers to his eyes
that nestles in his pallet
and mixes in his dyes

It isn't music, really
not really
not the kind that you can
dance to
or sing words to
or hum along to

but maybe tap your foot
a bit to
or rock your shoulders
a little bit to
and sway your head
a little nod or two

when you see his aria
composed by strokes
from brushes
dipped in sound

We were pirates then
dueling swords of picket wood
on summer days when backyard pools
were Caribbean seas

We swung from frayed and creaking rope
tethered to the stolid limbs of shadegiving trees
plundering the ships we made from cardboard
and splintered pinewood crates

We laid siege to sandbox fortresses
with cannon fire from garden hoses
muzzled by the ends of our thumbs

Our shipmates were the tabby cats
and german shepherds we dressed
in tattered sheets pillaged from
lines strewn across the lawn
and patches held by rubber bands
covering bewildered eyes

We were pirates then
dueling swords of picket wood
on summer days we buried
in coves hidden along straits
we marked on weathered maps

Surviving still and sometimes found
in the darkest corners of the night
and the cloudless wonder of the day

We talk in code
with words
that like chameleons
hide
where they appear

and send signals
with our fars
and nears
and gones
and heres

that in their way
are sometimes mixed
without knowing
when or why

And then we act
hesitant at times
and at times decisive
yet uncertain

in choreographed
but unrehearsed
steps
that turn
into each other
and phrase the
rhythm
of
our dance

To suffer pain
caused by another
is more harm
than should ever be

To heal and find
greater safety
is more difficult
than should ever be

But inflicting pain
in return only
adds to more
than should ever be

It's a lazy day in LA
where the sun
siestas in the trees

and the only ice
to be found
is in the margaritas
that we raise
to toast the clouds
that drift away
as the sky blushes

pacific blue

I spent so much purpose
determined, without knowing
perhaps instinctive
surely stubborn
but not blind

Being the center

because I could
bring direction
to the spin

for a while

But then my time had passed
or so I thought when I felt
the ground dissolving
without forewarning
turning solid into
nothing
and knowing
into uncertainty

leaving me an empty shell
or so I thought until I learned
that my time had actually come
but I was unprepared

I reached out for you
too late without forewarning
in ways unrecognizable to you
and hopelessly misguided by me

but you looked away
because of who
I had become
and who you wanted
to be after all you
saw of me

And yet you stayed
near but not close
present but not here
just out of reach
by either one

So now I struggle
determined, and well knowing
against my nature
surely stubborn
but not blind

I feel the warmth
of your fingertips
and soon I'll grasp
your hands

if you keep mine
in yours I will find
some way to make
these battered legs
take me to you

I hear the falcon
but not the falconer;
its prescient screech
claws at my ears

The shadow of its wings
is delivered by the sun
but those who gather
in its path cry out in vain

The worst conflate
their ways with
passionate intensity,
belied by lack of
true sincerity

And yet the best
decline to rise or cease
virtue as vulnerability;
they watch unwittingly

as the falcon turns above,
finding no footsteps
into Bethlehem

Do not praise Allah
if you **** in his name,
the prophet Mohammed
is crying in shame

Do not ask God's blessing
to ****** and maim,
His commandments since Moses
could not be more plain

Do not pray to Jesus
if you cause suffering and pain,
He was a Savior
when on a cross he was slain

Whatever demons are lurking
behind your acts inhumane,
they will drag you to Hell
no matter their names

Iyam wud Iyam.

They suffer
the harshest loss
family
lovers
friends
community
occupation
respect
dignity
p­ride

Yet they endure

They live in the streets
or the hills
or the places where
no one goes
because for them
there is no home

Yet they endure

And there is no one
to care for them
or feed them when
they're hungry
or treat them when
they're sick and
they have no money
to depend on so
they beg for what
they can survive on

Yet they endure

They are disparaged
as pariahs instantly
and automatically
by most who won't
spare a second
to know them before
passing judgment
and who themselves
would self-destruct if
their better fortune
were to erode by only
a fraction of what
they have lost

Yet they endure

Despite suffering
every painful circumstance
and being dealt luck far
worse than they ever
believed possible
time and time
and time again
they continue to breathe
and to hear the sounds
that play throughout
each day and to see
what visions come
their way and they
feel the sun on their
faces as it wakes them
and brings yet
another day

And they endure

For them the privilege
of being alive when
all the Universe but
this tiny planet has been
without life from
the beginning of time
somehow gives them
the strength to struggle
through each moment
as it comes and to
be grateful for each
experience and whatever
still remains for them
without drowning
in the endless misery
of what is past

And they endure

Some nurses came rushing in because his monitors had been going haywire, and they kicked me out of his room. I was glad at first, because I was beginning to feel his pain. When he was talking about that little boy, I started to think about my own boy, and how he died with my wife when the car I was driving went off the road. And I started to see his face, all covered in blood, and looking up at me for help, and I remembered how I tried, I tried everything I knew how, but it wasn't enough, I wasn't enough, and he got taken away from me. He and his mom got taken away from me. And I feel as though I died in that crash too, but my body stayed behind. And I've been trying to go with them, but my body won't let me. Not completely. It's like part of me has gone to find them but the rest of me can't catch up, and I'm in agony as I try to pull and push and rip and tear and claw away at whatever's holding me back.

     And I've been trying to wash all that blood from my boy's face, so I could see him, and he would be all right again. But I haven't had anything but tears to wash that blood away. And at first they flowed like rivers, and then like streams, and then like rain. And then slowly they ran out, there just wasn't any more. And sometimes I see his face, and sometimes he's even smiling, and sometimes my wife is there too. But it's not enough, it's never enough. I want more, I need more, I want to feel my boy tugging on my hand, and hear him laughing at my jokes, and watch him catching a ball when I throw it to him. I want to feel his arms around my neck hugging me so tight I can hardly breathe. I want to feel my wife's hand, and her heart beating against my chest when she puts her arms around me. I want to feel her breath on my neck as she smiles and laughs at the day. I want them back so much there's no room for anything else inside me, just that want, that need, that ******* hole of an ache, to have them back again.

     And all these years I've been trying to dull that pain, day after day, hour after hour, bottle after bottle, ounce after ounce. And I've been building scars, like bricks in a wall, to try and keep the hurt away. But listening to that guy in the hospital, I felt like his words had been picking away at those scars and tearing down those walls. And then, after seeing my boy's face again, and thinking about my wife, I felt like l needed that pain. That somehow it gets me closer to them and maybe I'll lose them if I stop feeling whatever is tearing away at me. So I went back to see him the next day, and we talked for a real long time, and made a pact to go up to his village and try to get the herring and seal to recover, and to fight the oil companies, and kumbaya. And I gave him my number to call me when he got out of the hospital if he needed a place to crash, and he said he would. And about a week later I got a call, but it wasn't from him, it was from a deputy sheriff in the next county saying they had found my number in the pocket of a guy who had been beaten to death and it was all he had on him and would I come over and identify the body?

     I went over there and it was him lying on a slab in the morgue. I just couldn't leave him there, so I called that lawyer who got me out of jail and she was kind enough to help me make arrangements to have his body sent to his village for burial, and she lent me some money to go along. I wasn't sure how his father would react, or what would happen when I got there, but I knew that I had to keep up my end of the pact that I had made with my friend.

     It was time now, so I took a final look around. The apartment looked smaller somehow, now that it was empty. Then I grabbed my bags, opened the door and said to the wind, "OK Irniq, let's go home."

’s gone phishin’
For some fools a’wishin’
They could whup
The good ole USA

They all voted for some chump
Who always takes a big fat dump
On the good ole USA

They hollar and they scream and shout
And then they cry and then they pout
Because they’ll never get their way

Sedition
‘s gone phishin’
For some fools a’wishin’
They weren't so sad
In the good ole USA

You were Ukraine
Now you are my land
But you didn't know all the ways I owned you, no
So you took a chance
And made other plans
But I bet you didn't think that they would come crashing down, no

You don't have to say, what you did,
I already know, I found out from Yanukovych
Now there's just no chance, for you without me, there'll never be
And don't it make you sad about it

You told me you obeyed me
Why did you leave me, all alone
Now you tell me you don't need me
When you call me, on the phone
Sovereignty I refuse, you must have me confused
With some other ruler
Your bridges are burned, and now it's your turn
To cry, Crimea river
Crimea river-er
Crimea river
Crimea river-er, yea yea

Somebody must have known
the way I feel right now
as the still cool glow
of golden hour

wraps the trees
and settles on the grass
while I sit here in a
wicker chair looking out
from this porch that
somebody some time ago
must have built for
this moment

When I am embraced
by the incandescent sky
and passersby who escaped
the scorching fury of the day
to bask in the lazy breeze

and now
come down from porches
built for them some time ago
by somebody who must have known

Hey, Hey, NRA
Who're you going
To **** today?

A little girl at school
Or a little boy at play
Maybe a *******
From India by mistake

Home defense
Is a good excuse
But it's more likely
to be home abuse

Suicides are up
And accidents too
But they're guaranteed
By Amendment Two

We all need protection
From all the terrorists
Because they can buy guns
Even if they're on our lists

And don't forget the Government
We'll need our peashooter Glocks
Against their heavy armament

Hey, Hey, NRA
Who're you going
To **** today?

The sirens were no match
For the pounding in my ears,
Or the hurried breaths I gulped
To exhale nervous bursts of air

Into the lungs of one
Who gave life to me

My eyes were no match
For the scene when they arrived,
Their uniforms obscured my vision
As it began to blur,
And colors slid past shapes
Like views through vintage glass

And though I couldn't see him,
I knew that he was there

My breath still in his lungs

Has its flaws

I hear the
thumpetathumpetathumpeta
of chopper blades struggling
with an angry sky

And am somehow drawn
to a faceless stranger
once leanmeanandnineteen
lying in a field a world
away from where
he used to play
with ball and glove
on summer days

A rivulet of red
has pooled around him
and he is strangely numb
after cold and fear have
squeezed his ragged body
of whatever will remained
after his final battle

But he is not alone
for we are there
to hear his name
and see his face
and watch with him
the settling dust
reveal the evening sky

There are levels in the sky,
where the clouds come sliding by,
and the sun is bursting through
with rays ablaze upon our eyes

There are levels in the ground,
where the mountains hold the towns,
and tears of storms' past fury shine
in serenity they have found

There are levels in the sea,
where the days are memories,
and waves that wrestle with the shore
toss our spray into the breeze

spin states you and i
like waves across the sky
forever held in time

entangled

When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll send him back for another tour
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Old men will cheer while young boys fight
The ladies will cry alone at night
And we'll all feel safe until
Johnny comes home again.

The old church bell will peal with joy
Hurrah! Hurrah!
When Johnny kills another boy,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The village will be blown away
The roses won't see another day,
And we'll all feel safe until
Johnny comes home again.

Get ready for the Jubilee,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Our gasoline costs less than three,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The laurel wreath is ready now
To place upon his casket shroud
And we'll all feel safe until
Johnny comes home again.

Let love and friendship on that day,
Hurrah, hurrah!
Grieve as we send him away,
Hurrah, hurrah!
And let each one mourn some part,
When beats no more the warrior's heart,
And we'll all feel safe until
Johnny comes home again.

A thousand dancing cats
mewed in wild cacophony
with whiskers tangled
and bells that jangled
amidst and among
their tails and their paws

The wide-eyed dogs
could only leap
and bark at the chaos
in their noses and their ears
their empty jaws held dripping tongues

While flocks of birds
fell laughing from the sky

You
are the living breathing expression of a singular moment in the unyielding march of time

You
are unique as the shape of a newly formed crystal emerging from a storm filled cloud, finding its way to a bed of freshly fallen snow

You
are the flow of a river running through canyons, soothing edges from clashing stones, sparkling now and then in the rays of the sun and the sated beams of a harvest moon

You
are the beat of a drum in a warlord's prance and the breath of a flute in a diva's dance

You
are the present, the instant, the essence of the distilled day

You
are nevermore

You
are forevermore

You

We have a little tug of war,
my dogs and I

It's about the cushions
where they often lie

The older one keeps moving them
from place to place
and day to day

The younger one keeps chewing them
from top to bottom
until they fray

I wag my finger,
I say "No, No!"

They wag their tails,
They just don't know

And then the sky grows ominous
as clouds begin to form
they are dark and menacing
moving in but slow

So I grab the cushions
and head toward the porch
where the roof will cover them
and keep them dry and warm

My dogs look curious,
Is this another game?
Will they get their cushions back?
Will I ever learn their ways?

But when I put the cushions
where they ought to be
I sit down beside them
and my dogs lay next to me

As we watch the raindrops
begin to trickle
and then to pour

We see what happened to the sky
and wag our tails, happy,
that I did not let
sleeping dogs lie

j
       u
         s
          t
        a
     l
      i
       tt
          l
            e
                b
                     l
                       u
                     e
                s
          i
     l
   v
    e                        
         r              
              w  
                    h                    
                        i           p
                             s           e
                                            r
                                           f
                                            u
                                                l
                                            o
                                       f
                               s    
                   m
        o
           k
   e
      blew
          from
              your lips
                     to wisp
                           right by my nose

and though it put the candle out
          it drew
                my lips
                      to yours

There is no beauty
in pretense

only the fleeting
mask of some
shameful truth

Three is a lonely number
it's the odd man out
the third wheel
the unreserved ticket
the strikeout

It's what happens
after two

But three is also a prime number
it's the pinnacle
the apex
the try in
the attempt

It's what happens
before

Each day on the TV
I watch as the newspapers die
I say to myself
"You're about to go blind"

To have a country like this
Should be a dream come true
Out of all the nations in the world
We have democracy
　
So is it just my imagination
Running away with me
Or is the freedom of our nation
Running away from me?
　
Soon I'll be married
But I won't be employed
I'll dream about a home in the city
But there's none I can afford

I ask you
Am I losing it all?
This American dream
Is it too good to be true?
　
So is it just my imagination, once again
Running away with me
Or is the freedom of our nation
Running away from me?
　
Every night, in e-mails that I send,
"Dear Congressman please
Don't take my voice away from me
Or I will surely die"

Ooh, their speeches assure me
When they appear on TV,
I hear their concerned sympathy,
But in reality, they could care less about me
　
And is it just my imagination, once again
Running away with me,
Or is the freedom of our nation
Running away from me?

I once had it and I can't forget it,
Just my imagination
Running away from me
Just the freedom of our nation
Running away from me

I once had it and I can't forget it
Was it just my imagination?

Everyone lies
except me

In a garden where young roses bloom
and wildflowers find their way,

she walks along a path
where thorns and thistles lay.

Her silhouette adorns the sky,
her shadow floats above the ground,

she weaves silk and velvet
from petals fallen down.

She charms the swirling wind
with calm and gentle sway,

and gazes past horizon’s end
as night turns into day.

It's dust, mostly
the kind that burrows
deep into the creases
of his forehead
and hides inside
the crinkles
around his eyes

It's forever stuck
to the soles of his boots
and never rinses out
of his denims
in the river,
not entirely

And it finds a way
to roll with beads
of sweat in dripping
lines exposing
parchment skin

but somehow never
penetrates the ring
around his head,
preserved forever
by his stetson's brim

And it's also ashes
from chaparral
and tumbleweeds,
lit up in circles
where he camped

leaving a trail
of where he's been,
like breadcrumbs
swept away in a
restless breeze

It's the creaking sound
of leather in his saddle
and the rhythmic
thud of horseshoes
pounding sunbaked ground

It's the wind in his face
that grits his teeth
and squints his
glassy eyes

It's standing in the stirrups
to fly above the racing plain,
keeping balance
with the whipping mane

It's the endless sky,
and the horizon
that never fades

But mostly,
it's the dust
that he holds
in upraised palms

slipping through
his fingers, disappearing
from his touch

in the wild and still
untamed range

If you hear the song I sing
You will understand
You hold the key to love and fear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It's there at your command

She thought she felt
the world
crumpling all around her
falling in pieces
darkening her skies
suffocating all the joy
within her

And when she felt
the heavy
blanket of despair
draped wearily
upon her
tears began
flowing into pools
beneath her
and she began
floating on
dissolving grief
within her

And then she felt
nothing
of the pain inside her
nothing
of the time that stalked her
nothing
of the ragged skin that enveloped her
nothing
of the memories that haunted her

Until she felt
a new shape
forming in the darkness
tenderness
spreading from her fingertips
embracing her shoulders
caressing her cheeks
as her lashes fluttered
at dimly sparkling rays

And then she felt
her limbs
stretching from confinement
her lips
drinking in sweet breath
her eyes
seeing past imagination

A new beginning
emerging
in a familiar
world slowly

Like the dusted wings
of a painted lady
unfolding to the skies

Crayons almost always
draw outside the lines
and rub their colors
the right way

to make rainbows
from random strokes
of curves and
scattered lines

that somehow find
each other and
come to life
beyond the page

With wings delivered,
he escaped the labyrinth
that once was prison to
the mighty minotaur, and
then to Daedalus in its stead

His patriarchal path before him,
his flight to safety was begun,
but freedom still remained
beyond his reaching grasp,
beyond the edge of his horizon,
freedom still remained

And so he strayed, from what
he knew to what he dared,
and left behind familiar shores,
searching for release from chains
still binding, searching
still for something more

He paid no heed to warnings
that only held him to his past,
and answered cries of sorrow
with distance rising, fast
into the clouds, away from
mourning eyes and far
from clutching hands,
he flew away, into the sky
and then into the sun

With wings reclaimed,
he escaped the labyrinth
that once was prison to
his dreams, the fountain
of his thoughts and
visions yet unseen

With wings reclaimed,
he fell into the sea
and rose up to the surface,
where he would breathe free

They stand for centuries
these bricks of clay
in walls and streets
in wind and rain
they never stray

From their formations
destinations cast
by fate

Molded
into shapes
designed to
keep them in
their place
encased in mortar
adding permanence
to finality

Yet from the same
patch of earth
there are grains of clay
in clumps or on their own
that refuse to fill a mold
or be confined in ways
that rob them of their nature

They are empowered
by the blazing sun
and use its heat
to set their fire
as they become
the smoke and flames
that scorch the earth
and ride the wind

It's empty now,
big dark empty spaces,
except for where the light
comes through in shafts
between the splintered
wood and cracks
and holes we made
on hot summer days

punching through our
youthful exuberance
and wide-eyed innocence
laughing like screech owls
falling from the sky after
a night of too much shine

And it lingers,
the smell of purest sweat
from pores of exploration
singing out to cries of
wild abandonment
in the breeze that flutters
paisley and polka dots
with plaid and denim
patched in the worn
out spots

And it's there,
still after rainstorms
and duststorms and
windstorms and
the constant tug of war
between the scorching sun
and the balmy moon

The paint we brushed
on barely dry wood, with
old bristles bunched in
clumsy handles, wielded
by fresh beginnings

Weathered, seasoned,
chipped, peeling,
ingrained and
hanging on

Still there

i usually start
with the e string
at the bottom
number 1 and mostly
with a hum

and sometimes pick
the 2 fret on the d
then octavate
for fun

but often i just
twist the pegs
whichever way i feel
and let each string
sing out its name

while my fingers
slip and slide and
pluck and play
whatever tunes
will catch
the rhythm
of the day

An empty shell
can hold an ocean
if you get close
and listen
to its quiet roar

Empty eyes
can glow like sunrise
if you get close
and find
who lives inside

And an empty heart
can beat with passion
if you get close
and hold
where it was torn

Self-evident, but unrecognized
inalienable, but usurped
equal, but oppressed

The rights of every individual
to live in freedom and equality,
unchained by tyranny, to be
master of his or her own destiny

And when our forefathers yielded,
in the name of loyalty and governance,
blind at first to common interest,
they found their rights, their beliefs,
their liberty, eroding from the
land where they stood, from
the cherished ground they
made their home

Though separated by community,
culture, trade, religion and
political views, they became united,
to reclaim their rights, and to
secure and protect their future,
for themselves and for
generations to come

They became one people,
who set aside their differences
to march together toward freedom,
and with one voice they
proclaimed their independence

Announced not with the thunderous
echo of gunfire, but with a declaration,
an appeal to justice, and most
importantly, a pledge

A pledge to each other, to
dedicate their lives, their fortunes
and their sacred honor to their
common purpose, to a nation
where all men and women
are created equal, and life,
liberty and the pursuit of
happiness may flourish

It is this declaration
that we celebrate today,
not our victory in war
or the battles we fought,
but the pledge of our
forefathers, to each
other, to the nation that
we inherit, and to the
march to freedom that
we now must honor

When snowmelt
from the highest peaks
cascades into valleys
below, it rushes down
arroyos, leaping over
boulders, circling
round eddies,
and settles into
lakes and pools
that echo
the azure sky

Along the way,
it finds itself
in blades of rising
grass, on barren
meadow floors

and in the roots
of ancient trees, that
sip no more than
they need to fill
their budding leaves

They emerge slowly,
from dormant slumber
stretching, like monarch
wings unfolding, giving
homage to the sun

And then they bloom,
in vibrant multicolored
celebration of the
renaissance declaring,
the arrival of a new day

And they give sustenance
to the twigs and branches
and the trunks, whose
toes reach deep into
the soil, and they
give themselves
to winter's spring

And they give themselves
to the fleeting wind

He put the moon in my hand
     long before I knew
          the measure of its weight

          It felt like almost nothing
     as if floating
above the reach
          of my fingers
    

               It had no special features
          to reward my wandering eyes
     as they continued on elsewhere

And there seemed to be no reason
     to keep it in my grasp
          so I soon returned it
               into my father's hand

                
                       But afterward I felt it
                resting in my palm
          growing heavy and then fading
       in phases without sequence
or boundaries of time

Barely perceptible
     like shadows pulling forward
          it guides me still

               Leading me past emptiness
          lifting me past hope
     rising highest in the darkest hours

I see its face again

Meandering up Route 1
past farmhouses and roadhouses
through turning and lingering
late Autumn leaves

A pace less determined
than I 95 reveals
a harbor content
with its own
slice of the sea

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade
unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me