On Hauling Water in Pails with no Lids

Depends on how bumpy
How long and how
Thirsty the ride,

Some will end up
In the truck,
Some will stay for the pail.

Now, will we
Or will we not
Still have inside

Enough for the fires
We chase,
And a final exhale?

Historica

Gandhi

So it will start with salt.
With a fistful of the white-rock
Crystal, crown jewel,
Gathering by sunlight heat
At a line that makes the land
And makes the sea.

When I reach it,
When I reach down
The power of Empire
Evaporates.
I’ll hold it in my hand.
We will be to them
No more.
To us again.

Kierkegaard

Today, how strange, a dead Dane turned
And put his eye tight up to mine
From what he saw he must have learned
My deepest habits’ true incline.
He picked their weakness and he churned
And churned my doubts with every line.

Norman Morrison

A Quaker.
Wanted peace.
Named in streets in Hanoi.
Cheered in streets in Hai Phong.
Burned in the street at the pentagon,
Under McNamara’s window.
His young Emily watched
Unharmed.

Bush, on the Occasion of the End of 2004

There are always two ways
A drug can make you feel.
There’s the first time,
When you don’t know
What you are getting into
Or if you should get outfrom.
It’s the drug and jitters,
That first time.
Hope full.

Then there’s the second time,
When you know what it does
And all the shock is gone
But you sicken from the thought
That you are doing this again.
You know just what’s to come.
That’s the drug
The second time
And every other one.

We earn the second time
There’s no one else here.
And this will be the same
As the last.
I’m concerned at that.
That maybe I should sober,
Take the wheel
And get me home.

Winter Haul

A frosty dark
Begins the day.

A crunchy walk
Across the yard.

Nothing moves,
Not wind or bird.

A hum comes
From a sky so starred.