Thanksgiving 1994

Clattering of spoons,
While silver children’s voices
Round the table run.

Discorporation

There are times
I want to discorporate
Into my component parts –
Not lungs, kidneys, and heart,
But atoms, neutrons, and quarks.

The squawks of people passing
Beneath my window, well dressed,
Laughing stupid, yelling mad,
Melodramatically sad –

That young mother, distressed,
Blowing chewing gum bubbles,
Steps into the public bus whirlwind,
Dragging her little lad – where is his dad?

Televisions and billboards squawk around the world –
The sound and fury of the whirlwind – and all the girls
And boys on the bus plugged into their little sound systems:
Little bubbles of sound destroying ear drums.

If a society presses its fingers into its human bubbles
They pop, one after the other.

Many years ago I walked on the beach,
And I watched the seagulls, squawking;
Fighting, stupid and mad, over scraps of food.
Across the ocean beat the drums of war;
Their import I understood.

To fly like a seagull, soar like the whirlwind,
Burst like a bubble –
We cannot stop the hope that in the morning
Binds everything together,
Nor the despair that in the night
Tears everything apart.

Veterans Day

I. Our Brother Orwell

Defenceless villages
Are bombed from the air,
Inhabitants driven
To the countryside;
Cattle machine-gunned,
Huts set on fire:
This is called pacification.

For freedom, for justice,
For the American Way.

II. On Sale

Somewhere in the Homeland,
At the Wal-Mart café,
She chews on a hamburger
That drips mayonnaise.
Her jeans are too tight;
Her diabetes not slight.
Her children have run out of sight.

We have all come from far away
To catch the sale on Veterans Day.

III. Until Tomorrow

He stands, listing, in the doorway,
Knowing nothing of Orwell.
He had enlisted, recalling the day,
The travel had been a good sell.
Though the journey ended in hell,
He was told that he fought very well.
Now he makes peace with his sorrow
Because, he’s been told, that
His check will come in tomorrow.

Long live our soldiers, who, every day,
Fight to maintain the American Way.

Dawn

In the pre-dawn light
I approach the window
And behold the sight
Of the empty sidewalks.

In that quiet hour
I imagine your returning,
Filled with a silent power,
Up the sidewalks.

You are always returning,
When the world is asleep –
Cracked, worn, and persevering,
Like the sidewalks.

But dead men don’t walk
Except in dreams.
And still it seems
The sidewalks expect you,
Cracked, worn, and persevering –
Returning from the long journey
With stories, strength, and learning.

The sidewalks do not reach you.
The dawn deceives.
For a while yet I shall expect you
Before your memory leaves.