Saturday, May 16, 2015

Rain on Tin

I sit with Katmandu all shook up - 7.9
with paisley troposphere caressing blue planet.

I sit with red scarves on quiet women,
with broken bodies confused about roads to healing.

I sit with secret holders, how
each one wonders, am I safe, am I stuck?

I sit with ample water to take long hot showers
in a safe place, my own safe place.

I know of children who carry water, uphill
for evening meals, dodging bullets, ducking shrapnel.

I sit with questions that poke the soles of my feet,
when I walk too fast they pop.

I sit with sorrow, and like woodpecker,
sometimes I just bang away at things.

I sit with struggle and sing a weedy song, 
I want my voice to be rain on tin.

I sit like puddle dreaming ocean,
like ocean dreaming sky.


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