Haiku: Ghosts on the Eve of BlackFriday

  
Would our ashy hands
too have be on sale before
1865?

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Morning Meditation

IMG_2133

 

Spring wind winds the village,
swirls sparkling shrubs
stirs a shift behind the squirrels eye,
serpentine through fluid Sunday
Oya’s whisper, rushing hum
made into season.

Trees leanin’ into newness,
a cactus winks at the sun
sinks back into comatose prayers,
sleep is a warm mantra.

Congas.
Their melodic appeal
reminds us that here,
drum and breeze
are free to be kin.

 

Tanka #1

Games are made of rules,
and cruel timing makes the joke.
This game has one rule,
as old as Roanoke: twenty
eight hours. “THEY THINK IT’S A GAME,
THEY THINK IT’S A JOKE.”

For Mumia…

On March 30, Mumia Abu-Jamal was rushed from SCI Mahoney prison to Schuylkill Medical
Center in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. He is being treated for dangerously high blood sugar levels
that put him in a diabetic shock.

For 35 years, this country
has tried to bury you,
smother you baritone scribble
under a Ferris wheel of appeals,
a circus of top hats
who write acts to silence you,
smear your concrete critique
as “mental anguish”
to salvage their languid careers.
Governor Corbett didn’t know jack
about that 23 hours a day
in a cell,
life.

16 years
since a Pennsylvania execution,
sugar is still cheaper than pentobarbital.
They’d rather pack your pen
with molasses, blackstrap you
to an ICU, injustice
is just as viscous
as the false witness
that sticks to your name.
A name we whisper,
make rumble,
call its bold drum into
your caligraphied veins
knowing,
your blood and ink,
crave the same
survival.