ROOSTER LOVE

Take me to the Red Hen

I have rooster love for the Inn

Hospitality is a gift, unlike freedom.

The seat next to me, belongs to anyone

Free for the taking, but so am I-

will I remain?

Will I sustain the unspoken welcome-

Do you care as I do?

Because I can feel what I see the long shadow of hatred

The will to inflict pain cause misery- for those that – like me

Are the sun-kissed children of God

Will I smile at messengers of dread?

Will I sit with evil?

Gratitude is the truest beauty

It is the humble thanks for the greatness of Love

Take me to the Red Hen,

Let me feel gratitude, and I too

Wil not sit, break bread, with evil.

seance on a watermelon

Deep green on deeper green
the heft of a verdant globe
a mystery awaits discovery
as the thin blade splits the shell into a seam
and the wet redness so inviting
succulence for the eyes
amidst a throng of expectant young palates
it is an urgency that begs a pause--

for a ripe and sweet melon
is an occasion for philosophy.

So the state of the world
descends upon the room
as the sure blade parcels red delicacy
a lesson in whom we trust, and what we ought to be.

It is the fortune borne by gray hairs on my chin
and  furrowed brow that now
I am a fount of wisdom gained through pain.

So I say:
the world is full
of liars and cheats, not trusted
as much as the worth of a spitted seed;
their need is power and an endless want haunts their eyes.

You my gathered legacy
must remember; You are what you must be...
true to echoes that come when you whisper to your heart
You must be the man  and  You must  be the woman
that fills the mirror within your soul

Glad eyes above smiling lips
as now, upon the generous stage
on which a purposeful life is played,
the melon is so much sweeter.

trumpet man

 the bulging veins in his neck, raise my eyes
to the bubbled jaws stretched  threaten to burst
the furrows making rivulets of perspiration beads
and the hands on the mother of pearl tips
two keys down
fingers hovered above
the Herculean strain he made to keep
the mighty horn...in a whisper

the sentence begins slowly and evolves
a question then a riddle..
and slowly he takes us down the page
line after line of sweet intensity
until we once again arrive at the beginning
and slowly, surely..we turnaround 

Kanye and the tools of ignorance

four hundred years...sounds like a choice,
a master of ignorance owned his voice,
and I can feel the moans of souls

that prayed and wept, tried and died for this day
when their children could be so blithe
and ignorant of pain

So I speak, as one that honors the past

there is yet
the unbroken circle of me to thee
your broad backs that lifted me
above the chains, and let me see
the horizon, the human victory
when a Slave master's words of liberty-
a shell of worlds born empty-
until you breathed it...to life 

for  readers - many are from other cultures and nations than the US, can use  a road map to  the ideas in this piece. 

1. The main idea here is that a well-known Black artist joined with Trump and  at about the same time denounced the idea of African slavery as a choice by the slaves-- they wanted to be slaves.

Chattel slavery was a global criminal enterprise based on murder,kidnap, torture, rape and false imprisonment. For centuries, millions of Africans were worked to death- for billions in profits. 

2. The Slave master's words refers to Thomas Jefferson author of the Declaration of independence

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal..."

3. "tools of ignorance"  is a phrase that I credit to Bill Dickey, catcher for the NY Yankees. There is disputes about the origin of the phrase but no dispute that Dickey said it, and that he was a great Yankee.
© an hour ago, H. D. Moore   

the meaning of a day

The celebration of Mother’s Day

Has faded into a feeling

No longer the impatient rush to gifting

To brush aside- the many lost chances to show

The Godliness within, a small gratitude

For a great gift; the present is consumed by moments

She bent to lift her child- grown and grown distant

But never far from her dearest thoughts.

Truly it is a feeling now, connected

like the jigsaw of bricks in a wall

and the meaning of a day- Mother’s Day

grows as time plants new seeds in fresh furrows

I remember a season of Love,

And the way she made an eternal Spring

overtones

listening--
some moods rise like tides
pulled to obey the moon
and  attend the  constant beauty
of her changeling face 

it can be in the descant fills
between the meaningful lyrics and my memories
it's more than  ascendant major chords
the overtones and sure rhyme end --no,
it is the space it made
and left...with you

lungs

the wall of machines behind me
beep-beeped with every skipped breath
a swallow or yawn sent an electronic chirp,
that grew more insistent
until i complied and in- or ex- haled.
They have given me a new lung and
a new level of resentment for noise

The human face -a lovely woman,  so young
so responsible and duty bound, with syringe and IV
tubes and charts she resets my path
to rest and morphine-sleep
as I close eyes
her loving dark eyes remind me--
you can see Angels  before you die.

Narco-dreams come with a buzzing ear
spots before my eyes and floaters,
the air is alive with motes and specks
so many little dark things
as the bright lights fade into hazy rings
i fall...

near a flame-red wall with steps of stone rising tall
above as far as only  i can see
the next landing and a fire bowl
whipped in the winds
i climb, as there is no choice
the wall comforts me against a fall
the wall now turns amber then gray
and red again as the fire bowl lights each etage
i look up and there is more of the wall
and more fire bowls-- the wall
grows like my fear and yet -- it calms me

Somewhere else some time other I lay in cold morning mists
a flat roof with thick ochre  cover
like skin, this warm clay
gathers sweat in the morning cool.
I am determined not to move
as the sun rises behind me and whisks water away--
the clay begins to dry then wither, and now ..it peels
Such quiet.. i don't breathe.. listening to the paint die
I hold my throat in  lock-- until
they beg me to exhale-- the noisy chorus rises unceasing
Chirp-chirp-chirps me back to breath.