Chapter 706,125
How do we love a place
back to life
that has no hope
A mother’s tears
are insufficient
to quench
the fire of rage
within the breasts
of young men
stoked by “No”
on every horizon
lip and closed door
They may not be able
to pass the state mandated
graduation exam
but they are damned
smart enough
to add 2 and 2
and come up with
all roads lead back
to square one
all highways end
in bridges to nowhere
The seduction of TV shows
with beautiful people
beautiful cars and
beautiful lives
is Hollywood ordained
mass masturbation
You can get off
but you can’t get outta here
Self dignity requires
looking into mirrors
that offer a reflection
rather than a void
Like the Aymara
you look ahead
and see the past
look over your shoulder
and see the future
Chapter 718,601
Saved by the doomed souls
of flight 93
they walk secure corridors
with self-assurance
gushing soundbites
ephemeral as the exhalation
of a naked child’s last gasp
on the plains of Africa
rushing to meetings
less important than
a drink of clean water
planning to rush
aid to millions
oppressed by ayatollahs
suppressed by pompadoured dictators
distressed by broken treaties
built on broken ancestors’ dreams
Where is the volcano
and the ritual
to mark the sacrifice
of innocents
Chapter 720,020
Living below sea level
brings a possibility
of drowning
a present danger
of flooding
a knowledge
of being overlooked
transfused via umbilical cord
Home is not where the heart is
It’s a four-letter epithet
a threat to sanity
a dream
confounded
confused
conflated
a glyph amidst the tags
graffiti artists spray
to claim lordship of the night
Jazzy dance steps
morph into
running
over bridges
through streets
to Uncle Sam’s house
of horrors
We never promised
it would be good
we never promised anything
Hey, can’t you people
take a joke
Hope is the last refuge
of the sacrificed
the last light before
the end of days
Hope beats in the hooves
of the last unicorn
in the wings
of the metamorphosed larva
Hope fragile as a flower
slips silently through new snow
face turned to the eastern morn
In the end we are all children
of the great mother in the sky
into whose lap we climb
to slumber
until Love calls us
into Life
3 comments:
wow. thanks.
This is really powerful, well-crafted, and beautiful. I love the end stanzas in each chapter. They are images I'll take with me and meditate on. Mirrors. Sacrifice. Promises. Thanks, Lelanda!
Thank you for reading the poem and your comments, Laurie. Orson Scott Card talks about "speakers for the dead," and I think of the need for human events to have their own speakers.
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