We found ways back in those days/ Ways to order our lives in community/ We spent time among friends and neighbors/ We compared notes in housekeeping tips over back fences/ We hung our laundry for all the world to see/ It has been a while since I assessed every corner’s baggage/ squirreled away by a lifetime of disordered orderliness/ Its time to find our way back/ to the neighbors we once knew/…
We found ways back in those days/
Ways to order our lives in community/
We spent time among friends and neighbors/
We compared notes in housekeeping tips over back fences/
We hung our laundry for all the world to see/
It has been a while since I assessed every corner’s baggage/
squirreled away by a lifetime of disordered orderliness/
Its time to find our way back/
to the neighbors we once knew/
open the doors and windows/
and let the sun/
disinfect/
and cleanse/
the corners of our hearts
It is beyond understanding/
these heinous interminable countdowns/
of death/
where we dwell/
human life is cheap/
except when it isn’t/
all too often the innocent perish/
oddly the killers/
seem to/
go on/
and on
It is beyond understanding/
these heinous interminable countdowns/
of death/
where we dwell/
human life is cheap/
except when it isn’t/
all too often the innocent perish/
oddly the killers/
seem to/
go on/
and on
The bliss of sweet potato pie/ Is a promise so sweet/ We move in waves/ Spend years perfecting recipes/
The bliss of sweet potato pie/
Is a promise so sweet/
We move in waves/
Spend years perfecting recipes/
Until one day/
The promise of an older/
Wiser mother comes true/
A little of this and a few beauties of/ that/
And if not perfect the pie/
As life/
Is better than we hoped for/
And the taste of/
Purest love moves in/
Memory/
With every bite
I wish the poem was nicer/ on this eve of the day we celebrate hospitality/ and survival/ we are treacle nice/ or try to be/ shooting for the hallmark pretty as a picture/ life/ considered rude/ to point out the hungry/ the lonely/ the ones sleeping under bridges/ are there the other 364 days of the year/ and we care less/ even ruder to point out the hospitality we celebrate/ was wrapped in…
I wish the poem was nicer/
on this eve of the day we celebrate hospitality/
and survival/
we are treacle nice/
or try to be/
shooting for the hallmark pretty as a picture/
life/
considered rude/
to point out the hungry/
the lonely/
the ones sleeping under bridges/
are there the other 364 days of the year/
and we care less/
even ruder to point out the hospitality we celebrate/
was wrapped in genocide/
not unlike the ones we are/
currently presiding over/
even now/
choke down feelings/
dry as the un-injected bird/
chase sugar highs/
with favorite shortbread cookies/
whole packages/
until/
like Jeremiah/
God sends we out/
to proclaim destruction and reconstruction/
with broken bone dry eyes
Light struck/
the corner of my plate/
the art in my cup cooling/
while I thought of the power/
in my hand/
power to hurt/
power to heal/
power to build up/
power to destroy/
what a laugh/
we imagine ourselves tiny/
domesticated gods/
ruling the somewhat tattered/
shreds of light/
that occur to us/
it would be better to simply/
find a friend in a stranger/
and chat
Light struck/
the corner of my plate/
the art in my cup cooling/
while I thought of the power/
in my hand/
power to hurt/
power to heal/
power to build up/
power to destroy/
what a laugh/
we imagine ourselves tiny/
domesticated gods/
ruling the somewhat tattered/
shreds of light/
that occur to us/
it would be better to simply/
find a friend in a stranger/
and chat
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