SONG OF THE BIRDS-------POEM By Ekemba Dawkin

Hear the chirruping of this bevy.                                                                                                              I can guess the lyrics.                                                                                                                              Yes, I am a bird too.

Across the sky from Baghdad to Washington,                                                                                       We make our flight.                                                                                                                                    Through Cairo across Tel Aviv to Palestine,                                                                                            We carry our plight.                                                                                                                                  Then to the Arabs and Abuja through London,                                                                                     To beg for our future bright.

                                                                                                                                                            Song of the birds,                                                                                                                                       Shedding tears for our right,                                                                                                                       In Kiev through Moscow, Washington-song of  the bards.                                                               Take from yesterday never time to ignite.                                                                                                 Caution with the glazing of this glass;                                                                                                       Because proudly looms the giant night

Before------POEM by Ada Limon

No shoes and a glossy

red helmet, I rode
on the back of my dad’s
Harley at seven years old.
Before the divorce.
Before the new apartment.
Before the new marriage.
Before the apple tree.
Before the ceramics in the garbage.
Before the dog’s chain.
Before the koi were all eaten
by the crane. Before the road
between us, there was the road
beneath us, and I was just
big enough not to let go:
Henno Road, creek just below,
rough wind, chicken legs,
and I never knew survival
was like that. If you live,
you look back and beg
for it again, the hazardous
bliss before you know
what you would miss.

Animal / Anima-----POEM BY Martha Collins

all of us     all but us     only

(but not us) the mammals     or only

us: animal in us     or only

the male of us:     brute

no animals     in the Bible

only beasts     as  of the field

not us:     it says    breathed

into     in our image     of the dust

anima breath     to anima

soul     but all animals

breathe the     same     one

long song     the same     air
 

Decorations----POEM by Kate Northrop

                                   (tired and high-pitched)

Ghosts have been tied into the trees.
At dawn they pivot
In the wind slowly.
Where the moon windows in
I am of those
Who can’t stand it
Kept awake, humming with trucks
While anything lunar
Won’t rut, ruminates.  Overhead, uh-hunh—
Days, the neighbor’s girl plays a game: what is?
What is dusk, she says, as the sky
ends it begins.
I play myself. What is death?  What’s poetry?  What
Is time?  Time needs no hanky, time blows by
the Kleenex flowers.  Or time’s
so slow, starry-cold, even is cold
            and sure, little admonishments.
                       .

Were you awake all night?

I was.  I was awake all night.

The Prayer Of A Simpleton-----POEM by Ekemba Dawkin

I remember, blue is the warmest colour                                                                                               And red is her loveliest anchor                                                                                                               As my jittery cold heart goes through this unyielding journey                                                         Following Chino as his battalion waded on                                                                                         Trod by carcasses, cadavers suffering, putrefying                                                                               Headless maidens fastened to stakes                                                                                                     And minors to tree stumps                                                                                                                     Even as their folks down south tore the skies with friendly fire                                                         And devoured rice and chicken,                                                                                                             Displaying whiskers like spirited local rabbits.

Dear blue, stick with red and yield to my pious yearning                                                                   At least this Christmas                                                                                                                           Everyone is home and jolly                                                                                                                     Yet mum cannot know Chino is in the battle front                                                                             Up north - east of it, in the woods of Michika                                                                                        Faced with the very foe whose best folk is death                                                                                  For the promise of a certain seven virgins-we are not sure, alibi?                                                                   

I worked hard in my heart,                                                                                                                     Communing with the spirits of my belief                                                                                               That they may come through the traps in the bridges                                                                         And the land mines in the footpaths                                                                                                     Alas!                                                                                                                                                           Blessings upon our creator for the short message that came                                                             ‘We av successfully pasd d bridge                                                                                                         we ar nw at bazaa                                                                                                                                   6km away frm michika                                                                                                                           God iz really our strength                                                                                                                       we burnt 2 of dere amo tank                                                                                                                   though we lost 6 soldiers.’                                                                                                                                       

And my response                                                                                                                                   ‘Thank God!                                                                                                                                             I plead d bld of Jesus upon u n d rest of the trps.                                                                               Our prayers r wth u n in my hrt I knw u wl make it.                                                                         Let me knw if u gt 2 town.                                                                                                                     Bravo!’

Alas,the prayer of a simpleton                                                                                                             Who ever let his sibling join now in defence of fatherland                                                                 From peace poachers, terror peddlers and unfriendly fire                                                                 Pardon is my plea,Nigeria.                                                                                                                     Just grant me and my little brother,                                                                                                       A bouquet of blue and a red, holy wreath.  

from Life in a Box is a Pretty Life---Poem by Dawn Lundy Martin

Lake, interminable. I do not know where my house is. Where is my house? Summer steams by. Every border is cocked and ready. Flatten body against cool earth. Lie without sound. Be a cool corpse under wire teeth. The police are so young. They do not hear the wailing. Wailing, I’m told, is a figment of your imagination. What to know of the body’s refusal to open, of its hidden cave? Put the cave inside another cave so no one can reach it. Perspiration aches. Strain against dirt walls. I have come to you from a metal house. We had steel barriers to protect us from the sun. The lake drifts into forever. Windows here are small and I cannot see myself in them. What it is to be captured without spoons. 

(The Night Is Still)POEM----By Edith Matilda Thomas

The night is still, the moon looks kind,
    The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
An ivy climbs across thy blind,
    And throws a light and misty wreath.

The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
    Buds bloom for which the bee has pined;
I haste along, I quicker breathe,
    The night is still, the moon looks kind.

Buds bloom for which the bee has pined,
    The primrose slips its jealous sheath,
As up the flower-watched path I wind
    And come thy window-ledge beneath.

The primrose slips its jealous sheath,—
    Then open wide that churlish blind,
And kiss me through the ivy wreath!
    The night is still, the moon looks kind.