Rattle…

By the side of the highway
vultures peck at the body of a fallen doe.

I think of my country,
its people, mired in poverty;
spiritually bankrupt,
enthralled by the headlights of the vehicle
that threatens to run them down
as they tear the few remaining scraps
from the corpse of the old ideals.

Oh, America, what have you become?
I turn my back on your government.
I turn my back on your flag
whose red is blood;
whose white,
imperialist oppression.
I turn my back on your greed.
I turn my back on your arbitrary
and artificially constructed web of lies.

America, how can we respect you
when you gorge yourself
on the bodies of the world’s children?
Quench your thirst
on the bitter tears of widows?
Your soul is sick, America.
You tend to your body
while your spirit festers and rots.

Turning my back on you, America,
I embrace instead, my brother,
his wild, savage heart,
the light of Spirit dancing naked
in the darkened  places of this world.
I embrace the light of the rising Sun
and the green grass that bends
but does not break beneath my feet.

How can we become mystics,
When we trap ourselves
in these boxes of slow, gray death?

Oh, my people,
I hear your cry.
And so I break this body
against the arbor’s hallowed ground
that you might live.
I pray for us all
that together we might one day stand
and feel the gentle breeze
against our faces.

From this sacred place
I cry out for a vision.
Cry out that Spirit might look upon this wanderer
and grant some measure of mercy
that his people might  come to understand
the joys of the cool green Earth.
Might turn away from the hard Black road
and walk instead the Red one.
Might press their feet softly
against the skin of the one that bore them.
Might know that they are not alone.
Might know that they are loved.

How can we become mystics,
when we trap ourselves
in these boxes of slow, gray death?

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4 Responses to “Rattle…”

  1. Bee Smith Says:

    Powerful truth…and speaking truth to power. Thank you.

    Like

  2. Thank you, Bee…

    Like

  3. Maybe, just maybe, we can be mystics and, while not trapped, aware of the pathos around us. The jury is still out on my end….. Lots of pathos, and opportunities to do psychopomp work.
    Thanks for this heart felt, wise, post.

    Like

  4. I think the difficulty, Michael, lies in the fact that mst people either don’t hear the music, or just get so entrenched in listening to it that they never get up and dance…

    Like

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