Big things loom,
winding patterns and templates,
colors and broad ideas.

Politics. Revolution. Hunger. War.

Others call:

“Tackle things before one,
not heart-stroking screams
of the street,
or bricks in the head,
remnants of broken structures of dead love,
but here, on the table,
underneath that pile of books
set into order of which is
to be read first.

That effort, that attempt sires
sacred flames which burn
and stay warm after the herds
have passed,

Let it burn on the desk a bit more,
the token scratch, the carefully excised and cut
notebook sheet scribbled on.

Stoke it gently.

Remind yourself of its heat.

We can wait.”




We had the unenviable task
of running the statistics:
nauseating numbers all,
dead, broken, homeless, wounded
and the detritus these events always
leave in their wake.
Another wake awaited us
but our road guide was firm:
“Conduct yourselves like dignitaries” he demanded.
We knew what was meant.
No one wanted to cheer-lead a revolt,
certainly not us.
And this idea of twin kings
or dueling saviors
was dishonest to be sure.
I just wanted to retire safely,
back to some wan green garden in the north
where sand flies are rarely seen,
and the water´s edge slaps the boat
and not the hungry, or those pleading for healing.
I could do the numbers, oh yes,
but that human element scared my contemporaries.
To be honest, I was scared, too.
The air was thinner now,
the Time, electric.



I am not content to write
About the world,
Its trade or wars,
The mass killings
And repeated tragedies.
Inside I listen to the
Quivering bellow within,
Put on the old jeans-
Not bothering to comb-
& climb the stairs
Where, above the rains
I make out a future
Calling my name.