you will not say NO to me
said the second of two
baby girls,
now grown in stature
and grit;
brows knit;
eyes bristling with
metoo defiance;

her mother shed
a fountain of tears
she was told,
that fateful day in calcutta;
back in ‘84

she wanted a boy...

~ P

tree stumps burnt black
no koalas in sight
only tracks
and charred embers
of nature’s wrath

indigenous insight ignored
to dingo’s demise

what does a bushman know
that lord sydney doesn’t?

surely, the conquering clan
and its bellicose band of einsteins
hear the kangaroos’ scream
from the smoldering
ledge
of extinction

a choking ode
to imperial exuberance

~ P

night covers all;
as critters crawl crosstown
casting graffiti shadows over
walls and huddled mounds
of despair

I encountered one
wrong-turned
down a cul-de-sac
off northside

a weathered boot
caught my eye

I swerved and sweared
sparing bones
and medicaid

but for the moon
and rearview magic,
my conscience would've been stained
in homeless blood

~ P

where were you
in april

before the blaze of summer
and white room

before the son
and hate collided

in memphis

and the check
for civil rights
was cashed

in blood...

where were you?

~ P

I am deeply in love
with the world;
with the improbable variables
of the universe

they collided on a tacit
turn in time;
split the beatles,
sent a man to the moon
and gave us twizzlers

and me

I was too young to see
the light,
groovy and bright;

to join the fight
down yonder;

to blow a joint in saigon;

to march with john and luther
over the bridge;

to stop life-shattering
bullets of war
and hate;

yet those stars
of fate
align

and we are here
in the flesh
with beating hearts
to start
a new
decade.

~P

was a time when black chattel
was inheritance
like cattle,
like silver and gold

herded and sold
on auction blocks
to the highest bidder

going once,
going twice,
sold...

to the cotton king
and his kin
from florida’s keys  
to the lochs of kentucky

wealth flowed like the Mississippi
filling white wells with prosperity
four centuries
and more

as seminal droughts rained
cyclones of poverty
on the black side of town

no gold
would be handed down
to the kin
of booker t and harriet...

only slivers of hope.

~ P

a plane will crash
in the future
and your wingless soul
could a casualty be;
a probability
more likely than heaven
without the thrill;
your pious potential spilled
onto the ocean blue
to sharks’ delight

black box screams
haunt dreams of widows
and orphans

incidental casualties of greed.

~ P
#max8blues
(4/14/2019)