Graffiti in Tunisia: Merci Facebook
A Pantoum

When his fruit cart was confiscated
he lit himself in gasoline,
police deprived him of a living,
no chance for work in Sidi Bouzid.

When he lit himself in gasoline:
Mohammed Bouazizi became the martyr,
no chance for work in Sidi Bouzid,
as in all towns, even Tunis.

Mohammed Bouazizi became the martyr,
sending flames through Arab lands,
through all towns, even Tunis—
their despot fled across the sands

sending flames through Arab lands.
By Facebook, word spread of liberation,
urging despots to flee across the sands
in Bahrain, Egypt, Libya, Yemen.

By Facebook, word spread of liberation,
tyrants had deprived them of a living
in Bahrain, Egypt, Libya, Yemen,
ignited when his cart was confiscated.

        This poem won first prize from CURRENT in Ann Arbor, July 2011

Taking Merton’s Path

This moving away
from the world,
this moving inside
somewhere near
the center, to hold onto
God
is one way,
but avoidance,

then one day
in the clatter
of the world
God enters in,
tells me She is in
my heart — the quiet
which has been
growing there is God,

the One who takes
me by the hand
into the tumult,
to be there without
noise, without distress,
with new compassion.

Mime

Like the mime
he shapes his peace,
moving slow

as summer rivers,
between intended pauses.
Across the water

at its edge — that line
parting dense foliage
from the still dark marsh —

this bright streak
steps and stalks,
his graceful “s” neck

stretching to a thin
white line: elusive
great egret

halting me on the path.

Marshes Call

Marshes along the way
call me to come close,
their sunken terrain
rich with growth.

It’s sound that stops me,
peeping and singing,
songs breaking silence
of its sister woods.

I envy the trees
standing here all day,
their curled arms
reaching in grace

accompanied by
this steady sheet
of music.

Words Leave

Words leave
like years
lifting into nowhere,
and I reach up
to grab them,
to touch memories
of childhood,
or last year,
but like air,
nothing’s there.

Some days words
do swim about
in my head,
but with the lead
of my pencil
they won’t fall
onto paper,
end up crouching
into corners,
as if dead.

Could it be,
as one told me,
that hanging all my paintings,
hosting all those cousins,
and holding my
new lover in my arms
could have poured
me full of happy,

to the point where words,
those dancing little darlings,
shed their ballet-slippers,
tiptoed to the shadows,
folded arms about them
for a rest?

Come, words!
I’ll play some music,
a little silver CD
of soft lilting piano,
or spicy, rowdy jazz;
I’ll spin the disk
till dots of notes
tap your head like rain,
wake you from your quiet dream,

whirl you once again into
chorus lines of rhythm,
that spill onto the dance floor
of my poems.