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| I'm the one with the hat |
Tiger, tiger, fading fast From the forests where you pass Silently in search of prey, Deadly hunter, night or day. Flaming stripes and teeth of steel, None your prey that seek your weal, Yet other hunters oft admire Your strength and quintessential fire. Your backbone's spring, your mitts of stone, Your jaws that sunder flesh from bone, Invincible mid Nature's beasts, They gaze, astonished, at your feats. But now of late your numbers dim, E'en as masses chant your hymn. Ruthless man, your mortal foe, Steers your fate toward final woe. Tiger, tiger, fading fast From the forests where you pass Silently in search of prey, Will you live another day?
San Antonio, 2010
Written in response to the news that tigers may be extinct in the wild within 12 years.
Some think I condone the bombing of my children. They must not know me.
Stone Mountain, 2003
You're laid off, and right now you're hurtin', But keep your chin up, 'cause it's certain The war in Iraq Means prosperity's back! Especially if you're Halliburton.
Stone Mountain, 2003
A voice cries out in the night, a siren wails-- the city sleeps, but uneasily. Beneath the façade of calm there is unrest. The sun rises, it shines bright and clear in the blue sky. It illumines the skyscrapers, the homes, the beaches, the squalor of townships and squatter camps. The majestic mountains and the quiet sea cry "Peace!" but there is no peace--only violence. It is not the noise of bombs or the marching of feet-- it is the hatred in the heart of the white man for the black, and the black man for the white. It is the violence of famine and disease in a land of plenty. Where is the human dignity when you sleep on the bare earth in a house of corrugated iron? Are your dreams those of your oppressor: wealth, ease, recognition? Or do you dream of shelter from the cold, shoes for your feet, food for your next meal? Do you long for the day of wrath that is coming? Violence begets violence--it spreads like a plague. It cannot be halted, only slowed. It will not be extinguished with more violence, only heightened. Is peace simply the lack of bloodshed, or is it much more? The sun moves across the sky and sets in the sea. Darkness replaces light, and somehow, it seems appropriate.
Cape Town, 1989
This poem was written while I was living in South Africa, during the waning days of apartheid.
I've seen the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains,
the voices of three oceans breaking on rocks or surf have spoken in my ears.
On hot summer days I've played in the waters of the Frio River (aptly named),
then on those warm nights I've lain on my back and stretched out my hand toward the black sky,
reaching for stars just beyond my grasp.
I've watched the leaves change colors then float gently, softly, to the ground,
and I've seen little yellow flowers push their way through the same damp leaves to breathe the fresh air of Spring.
I've heard the quiet burbling, babbling, chortling of a mountain stream,
and I've stood transfixed as the fierce, powerful thunderstorm rolled in over the hills,
flashing its lightning in the distant clouds.
I've drunk water from a spring that seemed to emerge from solid rock,
the scent of cedar and pine, magnolia and honeysuckle have overpowered me.
I've caught lightning bugs in a jar at dusk, then let them go as the night grew dark,
and my daughters (who are expert firefly catchers) hug and kiss me and tell me they love me.
Of course I believe in God!
Stone Mountain, 1997
Red Wanderer, brightest of the stars since the last moon,
what is the meaning of your sudden brilliance?
While others shine white,
your glow is the color of auroch's blood
that covers our hunters after the kill.
Your appearance is a portent,
a warning to the others who have invaded our great valley,
speaking with strange tongues and wielding new weapons.
We are large and powerful;
they are weak and fragile.
We kill the lion and the cave bear;
they run from the gazelle!
Crimson is your cast,
the blood of the others that we will shed
unless they leave our hunting grounds.
For we are great and all-powerful,
taller and stronger than our enemies.
We will surely triumph over them,
and they will be no more,
so that when you return to visit this sacred land,
only the pure eyes of our people will greet you.
Stone Mountain, 2003
When this poem was written, Mars was closer to Earth, and brighter, than it had been for 50,000 years. 50,000 years ago, Neanderthals in Europe were first encountering a new species, Homo sapiens. The auroch was a bovine, possibly the wild ancestor of the cow. Like the cave bear and the Neanderthal, it is now extinct.
Fractured granite, boulders, jagged rocks, gnarled pines here and there, dry grass. Man came, he saw, he coveted, he ravaged, cutting away tons of rock, leaving a barren gash. But things aren't quite as barren as they look, for through the rocks seeps water, dissolving the stone, nourishing the plants, quenching the thirst of the ravished land. Before too long, as time on earth is measured, the signs of man's presence will be destroyed, and the mountain will once again be clean.
Stone Mountain, 2004
Four million people live in this city. Hundreds are at the park today-- walking, running, climbing, playing, riding, loving-- yet here I sit, on a large boulder, looking out over an area more than a hectare in size, and I don't see another living soul. And I like it that way. Don't get me wrong; I like to be around people, but there are times when only solitude will do. The blue sky, the gentle breeze, the bright sun, verdent trees, waving grass, chirping grasshoppers. At times I feel like the whole universe was created for my benefit. This is one of those times.
Stone Mountain, 2004
I'm a Christian, and I want everyone to know it. How can I get my message out? I know! I'll get a can of spray paint and mar the natural beauty of Stone Mountain with a Bible verse! It will be a testimony through the ages. It will last for a hundred years. Long after I'm gone, people will read my message and praise God for my faithfulness. Sure, the mountain's nice, but I think God needs a little help getting his message out. As long as it's the word of God, it can't be vandalism.
Stone Mountain, 2004
Hue of butter, wings a-flutter, Stillness shatter, silent chatter, Random flitting, grace unwitting, Floating flowers, amber showers, Nectar gleaning, sunbeams sheening, Thing of beauty, sacred duty, Joyous mission, wondrous vision!
San Antonio, 2005
The sun beat like fire on the south Texas briar And the prickly pear cluttered their way. But Sheriff Adair and those in his care Were hot on the trail of their prey. Seems a drifter named Scott, in a cold-blooded plot, Had murdered and stolen a horse. So a posse was formed and rode out like a storm; Adair's icy resolve stayed the course. But the tracks were too old, and the trail it grew cold, As Old Sol neared the end of his race. So Adair hollered, "Men, let's meet back here again At sunup and restart our chase." As he rode home the breeze, blowing cool in the trees, Carried sounds of the locusts in song. "This ain't bad," Adair said, wiping sweat from his head, "I'll be home with my wife before long." From the bushes Scott came, for his horse had gone lame, He was now on the run for his life. When Adair turned around, Scott jumped up from the ground, And coolly slashed him with his knife. While the thief rode his bay, Adair staggered away; The gore on his hands was so warm! But he held in his guts, spilling out from the cuts, And he walked half a mile to a farm. He stepped through the door dripping blood on the floor, And bore witness to all those inside: "Scott killed me tonight, and y'all must make it right." Then he felt a sharp chill, and he died. Well they captured Scott soon, one July afternoon, And they hanged him the day he was found. The sun blazed with its heat while he dangled his feet. Now he sleeps in the cold, cold ground.
San Antonio, 2006
My great-grandfather was a deputy sheriff in northeast Texas in the late 19th century and was killed in the line of duty, more or less as described in this poem. I've transferred the action to South Texas, and the poem explores the various meanings, nuances, synonyms, and antonyms of the word "heat." To get the real feel of this poem, it ought to be read with a strong Texas drawl.
The sun sets in the west, turning the sky first gold, then red deepening to crimson. The dark green of the cedars and the lighter green of the live oaks fade to black. The tawny grass darkens, but remains on alert to glow when the first beams of the moon strike. White rocks and black dirt complete the picture of South Texas at twilight.
San Antonio, 2005