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Anchor babies playing.
Young children’s arms a’ flailing
whirling, whirling,
here they stay.

Illegal’s children dance
Mother took her daring chance
twirling, twirling,
watch us play.

Crossing Rio Grande’s water
Mexico sent a daughter
staying, staying
watch me play.

We don’t know we’re problems
We’ll dream of sweet sugar plums
dancing, dancing
love this day.

Anchor babies playing.
See children’s arms a’ flailing
whirling, whirling,
here we’ll stay.
Note:  Anchor babies are those children born to any person in the nation who are not US citizens and are here either legally (for example on a green card) or illegally.  These children are legally citizens of the US.[img]http://www.xanga.com/vexations[/img]

* Today in America over 300,000 "anchor babies" are born on U.S. soil annually (2004 data
For a little sister I have always yearned
whose love never ending would be returned
a shoulder I would forever have to cry
and sweet words for my tears to dry
at last, I found her in a fairy wood
blood we may not be but she is just as good
I call her sweet Sunshine Fairy
I love her so and she always makes me feel merry
For sweet little Marian. A kinder sister one could never ask for!
Rising sun gently kisses her brows,
she transforms to a rose,
on that  ethereal vision of beauty,
he goes through a metamorphosis.
You always had to me a look exotic
Though none could be more native
Nestled in our landscape here
Since ice melt these ten thousand year

No enemies, or so we thought
Warming, useful, strong yet supple
Ubiquitous, vigorous, unstoppable
What could harm you now?

Windy days you sway and clash
Skeletal click-clack in the canopy
But now it seems the common Ash
Must suffer life's fragility

Against this invading menace
You find you have no defence
The assassin fungus
chalara fraxinea
In the 1970's we lost our elms due to the elm bark beetle coming in on imported wood.
Now we face the prospect of losing our ash trees to this wind blown fungus which came
in on imported ash saplings. Other diseases threaten our native oaks as well as other trees.
Joni Mitchell's lyrics echo in my ears:    They took all the trees, put 'em in a tree museum.
Then they charged the people a dollar and a half just to see them.
At sunrise the dew melts into nothing
and the field loses its silver glow
while retaining a tranquility
unbecoming of most minefields.

Brushing his face against
heavy denim material
the curious son hears his father's words,
Soon you will walk across
this field. I will educate you
to step here and step there,
to avoid the hidden dangers
beneath the grassy slopes
and native flowers.


Trust flows from innocent eyes,
uncreased by worry
or the wear of fear,
as the son requests,
Why are there mines among
the lavender and milkweed?

Because the fox must be hunted,
and the deer harvested
as food for our hungry ambitions.
These mines are triggered
by those who justify their sport
as signs of bravery and courage.

At times crazed men ignite the mines
as a show of their rage.  They ****
others among us, even children.

What if there were no mines?
We must keep our freedom,
freedom to walk anywhere,
to say anything
and to plant mines in the field
despite their dangers.

The eye of the eagle
will guide you each
step amid the lavender
and coneflowers until
you are safely to the other side.


Glancing upward, gazing ahead
the boy shares his wonder,
Will I continue to plant mines in the fields
for my children to walk?

A heavy masculine voice
cracks the north wind

If I train you well, . . .
If I train you well.


(with Eddie Eagle)
http://eddieeagle.nra.org/
(information about the Eddie Eagle GunSafe Program of the National Rifle Association,  
Eddie Eagle is a registered trademark of the NRA
No matter how much arch in the eyebrow, 

the distorted image in the mirror
offers validity that Age is hammering out 

its handiwork as Borglum did 

on the Crazy Horse Memorial. 

Age does not put the chisel down.


Mother, well chiseled at 98. 

Father, at 79, was sculpted by age
and weather and farm labor. 

Will 
Age's chiseling cease? 


Age had been his friend over many years. 

Friends say he had aged well. 

Now his relationship with Age 

has entered a new stage,
an on-the-rocks stage. 

Age has picked up the pace 

and now chisels with a jackhammer.
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