Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth Read online

  How

  Someday

  It may come

  To us.

  And

  If it does not come

  In this lifetime

  We may be hopeful

  For the next.

  When he tells me

  This story

  I look

  Deep

  Into my beloved’s

  Ear.

  It is a finely

  Curved

  Surprisingly

  Small

  Fleshy-on-the-

  Lower-outside

  Miracle.

  On the inside

  Hairy, growing its own

  Wax

  It can hear!

  A love of bodies

  Sweeps

  Over me.

  And of

  Soul.

  Why the War You Have in Mind (Yours and Mine) Is Obsolete

  The brain

  Though encased

  In separate

  Heads

  Is

  One brain.

  Dropping a bomb

  On

  One head

  Or one million

  Is perceived

  By all the rest

  (Of brain, if not of heads)

  To be a

  Threat

  Not

  Definitely not

  So smart

  It is

  An end.

  Projection

  To start

  You must divulge

  Not a secret

  But a thing

  Not commonly

  Known:

  That at the back

  Of each human’s eyeballs

  Resides the image

  Of a little child.

  It is the world

  Child

  & it sits

  There

  Gravely, looking

  Out

  Of

  Our

  Eyes

  Waiting

  For us

  To

  Understand.

  So tell him this

  First of all.

  Then

  When he says

  Those Indians

  Are remote

  Savages, who do not deserve

  Their own forest

  Tell him: All the children of the Earth

  Are perfect.

  When he says: Those Germans

  & their ovens

  Tell him: Like clouds, or grains of sand, all the children of

  the Earth

  Are perfect.

  When he says

  Those rotten Arabs

  & their

  Women in

  Bedsheets

  You tell him: All the children of the Earth

  Are perfect.

  When he says

  Those Chinese

  & their

  Femicide

  You say: Like the feet of Jesus, the eyelashes of

  the Buddha, all the children of the Earth

  Are perfect.

  It is our Life Work

  To liberate across the planet

  The world child

  Who always

  Lives

  Behind

  Our eyeballs

  Imprisoned

  In the only

  Image (our own)

  We can

  (Sometimes)

  See.

  This poem expands to hold almost all countries and

  nationalities: When he says

  Those Israelis & their

  Concentration Camps

  Those Americans &

  Their Genocide

  Those Africans &

  Their holocausts

  You still say: All the children

  Of the Earth

  Are

  Perfect.

  When You Look

  You do not want

  To believe

  Someone

  Who tells

  You

  When you look

  At the sky

  That you see

  A place

  With couches

  For the weary

  & thronelike

  Chairs of rest.

  Someone, serene, saved

  Playing listless harp.

  Many of the formerly

  Fallen

  Well fed

  Jolly at last

  Driving

  White

  Cadillacs.

  You do not need

  To believe

  Someone who does not

  Want it known

  That heaven

  Is a matter

  Not of inventing

  Glory

  But of recognizing

  It.

  That the blue sky with its

  Sunsets &

  Clouds

  Is simply

  Beautiful. And that is enough.

  You do not need to follow

  Someone who

  Does not want it known

  That we are all

  Equal to God

  If we keep

  Our eyes

  (And our hearts)

  Open.

  The Tree

  The Tree

  The tree

  Was so large

  I could not see

  The top of it

  So wide I could not see

  The ends

  Of it.

  It was the world

  Tree

  & it had

  Presented itself

  To me.

  José the shaman

  Said:

  My people used

  To dream

  A tree

  All of us

  Together. We

  Dreamed

  The same

  Tree.

  It reached from

  Heaven to earth

  Earth to heaven

  And it sang.

  But now

  He said

  Our people are

  Dying

  Many are sick

  Many are scattered

  The rainforest

  Is being

  Cut down.

  The tree does

  Not come

  To us

  It does not

  Sing

  To us

  Anymore.

  But it has

  Come

  Perhaps

  To me

  I said

  & told him

  About the tree.

  It was so large

  I do not know

  How

  It managed

  To get

  Inside my dream.

  Though it did not

  Sing

  Except

  In

  Awesomeness.

  Now I understand

  & said this

  To

  José: Though it is the world tree

  & larger than the world

  It was afraid to sing aloud.

  It was looking

  For shelter

  Even in

  My

  Small space.

  The Climate of the Southern Hemisphere

  The climate

  My body

  Appreciates

  Has

  Moisture

  & has

  Sun

  My hair

  In this climate

  Bushes out

  My nails

  Turn sleek

  & smooth

  My lips

  Never crack

  My bones

  Never ache.

  We are made

  For each other

  The Southern

  Hemisphere’s climate

  & me.

  The joy of sweating

  Of eating fruit

  Handpicked

  From cool &

  Patient

  Trees

 
The warmth

  Of the earth

  —& I know

  I do not want

  A casket—

  That promises

  To melt

  All of me

  Someday

  Into

  Its verdant

  Self.

  In this climate

  The smell

  Of ants

  Is the scent

  Of rain.

  Just so

  (Only here)

  Are important messages

  Delivered.

  Where Is That Nail File? Where Are My Glasses? Have You Seen My Car Keys?

  Nothing is ever lost

  It is only

  Misplaced

  If we look

  We can find

  It

  Again

  Human

  Kindness.

  My Ancestors’ Earnings

  My Ancestors’ Earnings

  For over a decade

  My ancestors

  Earned for me

  Over a

  Million dollars

  A year.

  With our righteous loot

  We bought

  For me

  Every house

  We truly

  Loved

  Every car

  & work

  Of art in earlier times

  (Laboring, laboring

  Over uncleared fields

  & kitchen floors

  That had no end)

  Drenched in

  Sweat

  We were

  Denied.

  Now, sated

  We rest.

  Looking about us

  We see

  We have been feeding

  The little

  Child

  Who wanted Things

  For several

  Centuries

  & did not

  Have them.

  Wanted a mother

  Separate

  From her enslavement

  Whether by field

  Domestic service

  Or her own art

  Wanted a world

  Cut off

  From

  Its

  Woes

  Wanted

  In two words

  Pleasure

  Security.

  But now begins

  The downward

  Slide.

  It will all

  Be over

  Soon

  All the wanting

  Of this thing

  & that

  That drives

  This plane.

  I can let go.

  Of houses

  & of cars

  Of art

  & of

  Artifacts. No material

  Object

  Will seem

  Of relevance

  Anymore.

  I can let go!

  Free-falling into

  The very

  Arms

  That held me as

  I shopped, the very arms

  That worked

  The broom

  The machete

  & the hoe.

  My Friend Yeshi

  My friend Yeshi

  One of the finest

  Midwives

  Anywhere

  Spent a whole

  Season

  Toward

  The middle

  Of her life

  Wondering

  What to do

  With herself.

  I could not

  Understand

  Or even

  Believe

  Her quandary.

  Now

  Thank goodness

  She is over it.

  Women come to her

  Full

  Babies drop

  To her

  Hand.

  It is all

  Just the way

  It is.

  Sometimes

  Life seizes

  Up

  Nothing stirs

  Nothing flows

  We think:

  Climbing

  This rough

  Tree

  All the time

  The rope looped

  Over

  A rotten

  Branch!

  We think:

  Why did I choose

  This path

  Anyway?

  Nothing at

  The end

  But sheer cliff

  & rock-filled

  Sea.

  We do not know

  Have no clue

  What more

  Might come.

  It is the same

  Though

  With Earth:

  Every day

  She makes

  All she can

  It is all

  She knows it is all

  She can possibly

  Do.

  And then, empty, the only

  Time She is flat, She thinks: I am

  Used up. It is winter all the time

  Now. Nothing much to do

  But self-destruct.

  But then,

  In the night, in

  The darkness

  We love so much

  She lies down

  Like the rest of us

  To sleep

  & angels come

  As they do

  To us

  & give her

  Fresh dreams.

  (They are really always the old ones, blooming further.)

  She rises, rolls over, gives herself a couple of new kinds of

  grain, a few dozen unusual flowers, a playful spin on the

  spider’s web called the internet.

  Who knows

  Where the newness to old life

  Comes from?

  Suddenly

  It appears.

  Babies are caught by hands they assumed were always

  waiting.

  Ink streaks

  From the

  Pen

  Left dusty

  On

  The shelf.

  This is the true wine of astonishment:

  We are not

  Over

  When we think

  We are.

  Ancestors to Alice

  Forget about trying

  To keep all

  The pretty houses

  Going;

  These are only

  The toys

  We gave you

  Because

  In you

  We felt

  We deserved

  To play.

  Enough. We

  Have grown up

  Living on

  Here

  In the so-called

  Afterlife.

  Your true work

  Is to

  Remember us

  To sing our names

  Recount

  Or even record

  Our deeds

  Laugh at

  Our jokes.

  Your true work

  Is to notice

  The big feet

  Of the

  95-year-old

  Midwife

  From Alabama

  To feel

  In your body

  How long

  She has

  Stood

  On them.

  To hold them

  In your hands

  Stroking &

  Soothing

  Until

  You

  Can rest.

  One of the Traps

  One of the worst traps

  Is finding yourself

  Despising someone

  Really good.

  There they are

  Wearing a miniskirt

  Talking dirty

  But washing

  The filthy

  Feeding the hungry

  Defending

  The poor

  Befriending the dead

&nbs
p; & all you can

  Say in your

  Defense

  Is

  Their bleached hair

  & studded

  Nostril

  Hardly goes

  With so much

  Leg.

  Not Children

  Not Children

  War is no

  Creative response

  No matter

  The ignorant

  Provocation

  No more

  Than taking

  A hatchet

  To your

  Stepfather’s

  Head

  Is

  Not to mention

  Your husband’s.

  It is something

  Pathetic

  A cowardly

  Servant

  To base

  Emotions

  Too embarrassing

  To be spread out

  Across the

  Destitute

  Globe.

  The only thing

  We need

  Absolutely

  To leave

  Behind

  Crying

  Lonely

  In

  The dust.

  You Can Talk

  You can talk about

  The balm in Gilead

  But what about

  The balm

  Right

  Here

  What about

  The healing of

  The wounded heart

  When someone

  You have harmed

  Gleefully

  Embraces you?

  Goddess

  I am so glad

  I can recognize

  A goddess

  When I see one.

  There is Yeshi’s

  Trustworthiness

  Glenna’s

  Patience

  Sue’s willing helpfulness (& genius)

  Zelie’s

  Wild

  Laughter

  & song

  Evelyn’s

  Loyalty

  Diana’s equanimity

  Ruth’s incredible

  Storytelling

  & inexplicable

  Suffering.

  The scent of

  My mother’s

  Roses.

  Is heart

  Wisdom alone

  To see this

  Not—the added blessing—

  Eyes.

  Why War Is Never a Good Idea

  (A Picture Poem for Children

  Blinded in War)

  Though War speaks

  Every language

  It never knows

  What to say

  To frogs.

  Picture frogs

  Beside a pond

  Holding their annual