As the falling rain
trickles among the stones
memories come bubbling out.
It's as if the rain
had pierced my temples.
the reedy voice
of the servant
I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.
6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?
We're still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on
Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts
Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts
Millions of fathers in rain
Millions of mothers in pain
Millions of brothers in woe
Millions of sisters nowhere to go
A fresh green spread,
soaking up the orange hues.
Tiny roads that lead to the horizon,
small beautiful homes,
in the middle of green haven.
Low hanging, angry clouds
their knives sharpened,
fears the impending downpour,
Lamplight through pinholes
painting perfect pictures presently
along the warm cedar planks.
Shimmering sap shining silently
bringing it to life.
The shingle roof
tacked together by tiny tin
nails that sing under the faithful drumming of
Wandering wordlessly in windy wooshes
Watch the sky stumble.
As the clouds bundle,
Let them all fumble.
For such ignorant blunder.
Just a little rumble.
Jolting a crackle.
And it'll all crumble.
The water pringles-(to tingle persistently or annoyingly).
I belonged to a family of farmers, we had farmed for generations;
And we were true to our land, as blooms loyal to sweet sensations.
I knew the fierce satisfaction, only derived from working the land;
And sometimes it delivered surprises, yielding more than planned.
We worked a large Kansas farm, my siblings, our families and me,
As creamy stars labor at vivid midnight, to tell their lustrous story!
By our combined efforts we prospered, like noonday sunshine gold,
it's the golden hour
young duck swimming afternoon
hard rain patters down
the sun yet shines on
duck revelry in late bath
green river frolic
drought endured so long
but blooms and smiles are coming