Monday, January 29, 2007


i'm sitting on the floor next to the woodstove listening to the radio
it's bringing me voices of protest against the war
hundreds of thousands from all over the country
drumming voices
when slowly i begin to weep
then i'm sobbing bent forward into my hands it all comes rushing out of my shoulders out of my spine
which must be where i've been putting all of those endless stories of death
the 8.4 billion a month spent
the seemingly unstoppable abuse of power
just a river from my backbone to my eyes to my palms
it must be too much to carry around anymore
when a load of firewood is already too heavy for my winter worn frame
and here i am gifted with these voices drumming
relieving tears feeding some thirsty need
for normality thats not bloodshed
or a million stories of military might
stored away deep in my bones so that just getting up in the morning can make some sense
some drought stricken belief that privileged people care about changing
that the media numb can break down and cry
break down the millionth lie
gather and rush power like tears from my spine
this unstoppable springwater of a dangerous hope.


Rosie said...

I love this. You have a really seamless way of pulling your physicality into your poetry. I'm so reminded when I read this of when I watched the bombing of Afghanistan and wept. Because I knew we were just pounding mud huts into dust. It struck me as ironic...using all of that money and might.

Hayden said...

I avoid poetry blogs. don't usually like them.

this one has me crying right along with you. beautifully written, incredible power.