Written by
James A Emanuel |
To every man
His treehouse,
A green splice in the humping years,
Spartan with narrow cot
And prickly door.
To every man
His twilight flash
Of luminous recall
of tiptoe years
in leaf-stung flight;
of days of squirm and bite
that waved antennas through the grass;
of nights
when every moving thing
was girlshaped,
expectantly turning.
To every man
His house below
And his house above—
With perilous stairs
Between.
|
Written by
John Matthew |
In your bosom we wake up with fear,
In your sky there’s only unending tears,
You always roar, but within,
Hangs silence like a shroud of death.
You are rocked, periodically, by bombs,
Yet, we go about our business,
As if nothing happened, all’s well,
Are we too dazed to protest?
In your hungry, convoluted entrails,
Lie pauper and millionaire,
Separated only by the whimsy,
Of your very partial benevolence.
On your skyline of sooty chimneys,
Decaying concrete, bristling antennas,
Are the sad stories of fortunes,
Made and lost, just as lost loves.
City of gold, they say, which never sleeps,
Will you stay awake, tonight,
Wipe away our cascading tears,
And give our tired bodies some sleep?
|