1. |
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Give the Hurricanes a Number
The sea delivers, most everyday,
a bounty in our nets.
The sky provides its sunny days
to lighten small regrets.
Give the hurricanes a number.
But with a gentle gust, another busted
body washes up.
A baby—blue, tempest tossed—
the sea entrusts to us.
Give the hurricanes a number.
Give every child a name.
Yesterday, a bloated boy,
his lips against the sand,
a planted kiss that will not rise
and ripen to a man.
Give the hurricanes a number.
Give that child a name.
Give the hurricanes a number.
Give every child a name.
Give every child—
Got no kingdom,
no phylum—no fly away home
no species,
no space in
the garden row to root,
another strange and unripe fruit.
This one
from Syria.
And she’s from
Colombia.
This one dead on Turkish sand.
The other lies caged on Texas land.
This one drowned in the Rio Grande.
And another one’s caged on Texas land.
Why waste a name
on restless winds
spinning in their sky,
but tally figures
like blinkered bankers
when distant kin here lie?
Give the hurricanes a number.
Give every child a name.
From drought or flood,
from war or drugs,
from tyrant kings,
or what hatred brings.
If they brave the deserts or swim by shore,
We can lift a lamp at the golden door.
And give the hurricanes number.
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2. |
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3. |
Oh Plane
05:16
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Oh Plane
Oh Plane
Rest your wings
against the night
Close your eyes and sleep
like the albatross
on its trans-pacific glide
Oh Plane
Rest your wings
against the night
You shall rise again to rest
Oh Plane
Rest your wings
against the night
Close your eyes
Close your eyes
May the sky abide your hollow bones,
May the sea repeat your cry
Oh Plane
Rest your wings
against the night
Do you dream of men in suits
aligned in aisles
reclined in rows?
And do you dream of runway lights
the stars awakening eyes?
Close your eyes
and sleep
like the albatross
on its trans-pacific glide
Oh Plane
Rest your wings.
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4. |
Quilt
04:13
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Quilt
You work the treadle and I’ll guide the square
you cut from pajamas that he used to wear.
I’ll thread the needle and we’ll sew the pane . . .
Stroke took my legs. He cared for me good.
Didn’t think he could. Always knew he would.
Remember that, my child, when you look for a man.
He built this house when your ma was two.
It was a thing to do, he said.
Was what he knew.
Come sit at my feet and give your gramma a hand, and
you work the treadle and I’ll guide the square, you
cut from pajamas that he used to wear.
I’ll thread the needle and we’ll sew the pane,
so I can sleep with something of him again.
Something of him
his skin had long rubbed soft.
Something of his
on this something of him rubbed off.
Something of him,
a cuff, a collar a seam.
Something of his,
that held him as he dreamed.
Something of him
sewn on a backing of grey
is something of yours
to hang on your wall, someday.
We know the light will fade
the colors gray.
Life’s just that way, a little everyday.
Threads come undone, and a patch will go bare.
But we hung this quilt on the day
before
she didn’t need it anymore.
You work the treadle, and we’ll sew the pane.
You work the treadle and I’ll guide the square,
you cut from pajamas that he used to wear.
I’ll thread the needle and we’ll sew the pane,
so I can sleep
with something of him
again.
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5. |
They Took Only the Coins
04:33
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They Took Only the Coins
Who let it slip that the Carson City silver
was in the steel box under your parents’ double bed,
and the Buffalo nickels and Kennedy halves,
untouched by any hands, were in tubes and shelved with the linen?
It was your grandparents’ vacation—the first of their lives—
and Grandpa’s collection was stashed for safekeeping.
They saw the swaying palms, the manatees,
the orange groves of Florida—
and we came home from school
to wrecked beds and ransacked rooms
They took only the coins Na, na na, na na.
They took only the coins and everything we had.
The early flight home and detectives asking questions:
What was it? Where was it? Why was it here?
But they knew it was the Harveys.
And we knew it was the Harveys.
They damn well knew it was the Harveys,
but not how the Harveys knew.
Had you bragged? Sure you did.
Or your brother did. Are you sure you did?
And which of the two of you said, “Yes, I did”?
No one asked at dinner. No one asked, ever.
They took only the coins (Who let it slip?)
They took only the coins and everything we had.
(They took only the coins) Who let it slip?
They took only the coins and everything we'd had.
La la. Na, na na, na na.
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6. |
The Wheel
03:46
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The Wheel
Fairlane, Rambler, this Plymouth
turquoise and Flamingo
busted windows and rust, ditched
by the wheatfield—
rabbits live in the chassis
inside
rot spans the roof, rot spans the roof, inside
rot spans the roof, sit and the seat
breezes warm
wet jalopy air—rustling vetch blooms
fanning through floorboards
This car, a seed,
let it be
scattered,
lifted miles
and let to root,
and we will learn what fuels
the tender shoot to rise
into the light
It's husk
shrivels
already
Open the hood
Water the seed
Drive to the mountains
Let nature
take over
the wheel.
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7. |
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Retablo: The Cornhusk girl
The wind
winds through the field,
tells sisters three
to lift their leaves,
and then say
gather me
in cloth and beads,
picked from the world
to be the cornhusk girl.
You knew her then
a green young thing,
face as soft as silken thread,
and a body slung
for harvesting light
from the sun.
And with the season done,
call her cornhusk girl.
You know her now—She’s just
an old yellowed thing—
We tell our tales
of men of straw
who silent stay
and ease all day
just to scare crows away.
But whose
pages praise
these faceless girls
who’d fed their world
every hungry day?
If you’d known her then,
a hard, greened thing,
skin as dark as dusky grass,
a body bent
from harvesting light
from the sun.
And when the season’s done,
she’ll be the cornhusk girl
She’s the cornhusk girl
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Mitch Goldwater
Mitch Goldwater started stirring syllables and song together as a tot, after he sat agog listening to John Lennon's words "flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup." Mitch went on to study and teach poetry writing (unlike Lennon, who, thankfully, did not). Nowadays he mostly crouches between song & poetry trying to fit the one into the other, right where he thinks they belong. ... more
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