Wednesday, May 30, 2012


There're bubbles in the cauldron,
though I can barely see
the lava from volcanos
flow freely from the seed
of pomegranate withering-
it's still a part of me.

Tornados in the heartland,
that are beating to a farce
of fearsome flags and stagnant
dogma... time to clean the house.

The coasts are riding high on waves
of advertised religion,
can they surf on hurricanes
when a dove is just a pigeon?

Dry and arid raises fires,
water-boarding bears the floods-
anger feeds a crack of lightening
healing comes from dirt turned mud.

Once upon... I had an eye
I followed the modern medicine man
and lo! and behold... it calcified.

If I stagger here and cower there
the powers that be are the cross I bear.
Apathy put them to their place
as I ate my crumbs and asked for grace.

The Mother is patient, the Mother is kind
the children of privilege are provoking
and bullying and sneering...
it is time
for a big swift kick
in their irreverent behind.