Monday, April 21, 2014

Do What We Do, Do What We Must

In all of the stories,
heroism, struggle,
and buried beneath,
the code words, the secrets;

we all are to die,
the tired old lesson;
the passionate words
sometimes read to a drone,
but words to read over
and over and over

hear, children, the whispers,
you and you, one and two,
many and now,
and now that you’re here,
the meaning, the hope
buried, yet rising

and again,
the message,
a life lived in struggle,
oftentimes muddled,
occasionally clear,
always the goal,

listen at first
to the sounding of blows,
the bugles retreating,
the loss and defeat,

so many heroes,
lamentable deaths,
so many prisoners
and exile hordes,
eloquent obits,
men dreaming disturbed,
women bowed by their burdens;

stories sounding like heritage,
sounding like fate--
a blend of our courage,
seasoned by loss,
as though wounds and dashed dreams
are all of our story--

but here it is you
come to hear it all clear,
no defeat is forever;

yes, Espada’s jailhouse suffocation for barbed wire jumpers,
yes, Lorde’s children of war are aging and quiet,
yes, Lorca’s gypsies flee cities of musk and of sorrow,
yes, Hughes' poor boy weary, wishin’ to never be born,
yes, Ginsberg’s factories croaking in fog;
yes, yes, Forche’s Anna exhorting our silence,
our young ears to hear

the fight in the heart
of Crazy Horse felled,
the dream on the lips of Allende--
a leader may fall, but never the people;
harmonies of convicts chained in the sun,
safe houses for women,
healing and moving,

and the singing of blood,
of men dragged behind trucks,
hanging from trees,
the blood singing

here is the seed,
plant a new forest
that children to come
will find and explore
over and over and over