Email Poem

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Poem
we grew up at Home
with a warrior thrust tuning 
our souls to sounds of crickets
to rhythms of the soil
to smells of the rivers
knowing large dreams of moonlight joy
 
we grew up there in an ever rebounding 
spirit learning songs of seasons
that dressed our umbilical cords
for the harvest of our dreams—
they were songs fathers sang in the cycle
many rainless seasons ago
 
many harvest seasons ago we danced away
from loving arms of Home onto the snow sea
opening widely our limbs to invisible lines
that etched new profiteering truths 
into our being into our minds into our hearts
 
when we heard father died this morning
away from Home we were featherless eagles 
looking for remnants of our nest among anthills
at a traffic light fragmented by hideous sores
we lost the burial songs made golden by the Sun
and made the Dead sleep like babes at Home
 
it was here we remembered
the splash of Colors, the smell of Exile
the poverty of dispossession which soaked our souls
froze memories of green Hills of Home
and made us grow resentful to dreams of moonlight joy
 
we looked into the skies and remembered 
when Locusts burst dams and the deep cuts 
of Holy Water drowned the glutton voices of our fathers
our blood drank the pus from our wounds 
buried deep by the locusts beneath the skin
 
we lost our dreams of a harvest
to the splash of colors
we drowned the songs of our fathers
in the roar of the holy water
 
today there are many seas to cross
with deadly triangular calm 
they’ll congeal stubborn death breaths 
while father’s spirit scream at our tenacious fate
 
it is only a season ago since we left, yet
we no longer possess the sounds of the crickets
we no longer dance to the rhythms of the soil
what we have is the pus from the wounds
buried deep by the locusts beneath our skin
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