Texas Barbecue

 

bush & rumsfeld smile, would broil

families in their basements, starve

 

children, blast streets, neighborhoods

to dust, send in robot warriors to

 

burn those who resist to ash and

give them “liberty,” the liberty of

 

ashes mixed with bone, the liberty

which voices no opposition,

 

the liberty of wailing spectres

shrieking under the weight

 

of invading oil executives, drilling

crews, that profits may soar in

 

Amerika, that suburban families

may roar down highways in their

 

SUVs headed for texas barbecues

finally confident that they are free

 

 

Isabella Grace

 

borne thru winds of fire

where the visionary ascends

into the bright heaven,

 

when the giant shadow

stalks the land amid rumors & sorrows,

black-shawled widows & robot warriors,

 

may she find the lost rhododendrons,

the valley of water splashing over granite,

the island of the talking birds-

 

let her know the healing touch,

the song that tokens silence,

let her heart be glad

 

even as the raven builds its nest

in the snowstorm, sensing

the dreamed-for day to come.

 

when the singer has no heart

for songs, there is silence.

 

when the lover leans into storms

& sighs, & black night's stars speak

 

where no peace may be found

& the voices of men are on fire,

 

there is a touch that heals,

a silence that sings, the child's pockets

 

 stuffed with stars brought back

when no other may see them,

 

a woman's way to see thru

sorrow, gaia's dreams walking still.

 

 

The Broken Note

 

I tender my heart to you, my love, even in this broken note.

 

in the shallows the first spring lilypads break the surface,

arrowheads rise thru muck where coonprints trace the shore.

 

downstream, we float among submerged rocks broken

trees in swift current, where dead faces gaze up thru gloom,

 

thru the flashing mirror—& we too wind thru time's illusion:

 

networks' wired hum primes us for the coming war, great

minds bend to the cunning task of fire & blood, slogans & flags-

 

floating thus, may one sing a broken note to greet this dawn

where herons turn from the jetliners' blast path & the roar

 

of the shaking train stuffed with its cargo of dead dreams?

 

(ever a broken note, yet my heart is full of love, my love

is full of heart, full is my love, my heart is full, tho broken)

 

thus the kayak glides ashore where even phantoms laud

their loves, as I my love tender this message for you.