Crimson currants scatter across the plate;
The ruin of his proposition dies on his lips—
The longing and the loss go begging, too late,
As two tired hands sag draped across her hips.
While puzzled puzzling puppies whimper without reason—
Is this the sure path to the higher parish ground?
Milady, crossed, throws vexed hurt blames and accusations;
Limped, the poet crawls away to contemplate a grayer sound.
Storm warnings fall, the sun finally peeks out;
The happy and free saxman takes the stage for his solo
Another rainbow dies unlit without a Southern doubt;
Can we sixters renew old loves, is it yet the secret go slow?
Leg raisers, push-ups, and the latest anti-cholesterol drug:
Guys muster what little left they have to play her knight errant.
Girls, wriggle and giggle, and deflate their swains with another shrug;
Boys, bluster and muster, try to achieve the ultimate, yet can’t.
Why is Love so hard to find and put softly in a peaceful space?
Why must Time dry up all dreams along with such a lovely face?
Down the wreck that once was her yard the girl walked over the crumble
Leaving Aleppo is far harsher each and every day
Things pop up, blow up, and wall off the way
Baby Ishmalla is buried over there
Mom eyes vacant sits next to the window
Pages of the koran skitter in the breeze
No imam here just the shattered shattered
Cousins left weeks ago
Don’t know where they’ve gone
Cannot think about tomorrow
Booming nights and days for too long go on and
Unpoetic junctions, unrequited love
Broken clouds cascading past a thumbnail moon above
Insufficient walnuts lurking in a blueberry pie
Never a satisfactory answer for the ignorant Ferguson why
Blasted half-truths triggering sniggering comments from the crew
The panda ponders at the bamboo and I wonder why you won’t let me be in love with you
Emerald-eyed pan wrens perched on Grandma’s storm fence
More burials for the Middle East and Peace is strictly future tense
The moral of this off-story is there’s so much we cannot know
Without admitting tartly there’s more than a little bit farther we all have to go
In this photo shot by freelance photographer Johnny Nguyen, Sgt. Bret Barnum (left) hugs 12-year-old Devonte Hart during the Ferguson rally in Portland on Nov. 25, 2014. (Johnny Nguyen/Special to The Oregonian)
Meet me down at Maline Creek
We’ll wash off the blood
Cuz we’ll fight in Ferguson
A cow’s gotta chew its cud
4 miles from the Mississippi
But this ain’t no St Louie blues
Is it really cool to be racist?
Why do I have to hate the Jews?
But da cops, ya know, they all lie
And your can keep your plan
Is it really 2014?
What does it take be a peace-loving man?
Martin was murdered in 1968
And we ain’t learnt a G.D. thing
Hope the Grand Jury announces on Christmas Eve
And the Truth can lose some of its sting
But meet me down at Maline Creek
It’s gonna be a helluva week!