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.
And when, in the city in which I love you,
even my most excellent song goes unanswered,
andI mount the scabbed streets,
the long shouts of avenues,
and tunnel sunken night in search of you...
That I negotiate fog, bituminous
rain rining like teeth into the beggar's tin,
or two men jackaling a third in some alley
weirdly lit by a couch on fire, that I
The young child, Christ, is straight and wise
And asks questions of the old men, questions
Found under running water for all children
And found under shadows thrown on still waters
By tall trees looking downward, old and gnarled.
Found to the eyes of children alone, untold,
Singing a low song in the loneliness.
And the young child, Christ, goes on asking
And the old men answer nothing and only know love
For the young child. Christ, straight and wise.
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West,
On a spur among the mountains stood 'The Bullock-drivers' Rest';
It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside,
But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died --
Just a quiet little shanty kept by 'Something-in-Disguise',
As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.
City swells who 'do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low,
But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know;
For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men,
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
when the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha, ha he!'
Sometimes she was mad, and when she was, she frowned,
Then she would pout, stamping both feet upon the ground.
Frogs would start croaking, and the cats would run around,
As close by passed a colorful parade, of princesses crowned!
Into tall, wild green grasses, the big bunnies would bound,
While laughter would pause, on the giddy merry-go-round.
Dogs would start barking, and sad bluebird would fly down,
Crooning its beautiful song, until her smile again she found!
Hear the way he sings, like a frog
Hear his wisdom, this son of a hog
He sings about freedom,
And irrelevant kings.
Hear the sound of his mouth,
Heavenly trumpet of the south,
He deafens our ears,
sitting on the porch
surrounded by sun and blooms
watching life go by
lemonade and song
a concert in azure skies
the daily reprise
it's a perfect hour
as honeybees quest for gold
I was a professional flutist, and performed in orchestras and symphonies,
To express the sheer joy of living, like the birds sing to summer's breeze.
Becoming accomplished took many years, and I'd played since childhood,
As a late afternoon sun's grown adept, at leaving a colorful neighborhood.
I often played at social gatherings, as I loved seeing merry people dance,
Like stars dance in the silken midnight, vivifying cool darkness expanse.
I was never as happy or content, as when dulcet melodies were playing,
It’s like a poem with no name
A book with no pages
A bird with no wings
A dog with no bark
A tree with no leaves
A clock with no hands
A beach with no sand
A sea with no water
A car with no wheels
A sun with no heat