The waning hours
Asleep in time
A dream in rhyme
Desert sublime
So says the moon
So setting soon
Upon the dunes
Cactus flowers

r ~ 19Mar14

Remember when we burned
down the federal fences
and let a black family in
a white house built by slaves -

man, the fire was hot
and the smoke smelled like freedom -

but that was then, and here we are
not so much later, the rails are made
of iron like the fists of a dictator -

the smoke burns my eyes, man -
and now - I can’t breathe.

I find it odd
that my old dog
growwwls
and lifts her ears
when she hears
a pine cone fall
somewhere out there
on my neighbor’s
forty acres
but pays no mind
to the dogwood’s
bark in the quiet
of the night
out in my front yard.