by JOAN ANNSFIRE
Gathered at the threshold of the possible
we speak out, exchange ideas,
our call and response reverberates
with the acoustic harmony of resistance:
Whose streets? Our streets!
Whose city? Our city!
Assembled against despair,
we have arrived to collect
on a promise denied, a promise long overdue,
we have been waiting for this moment
since the floor began slipping
down and away beneath our feet
like the amusement park ride
that depends solely on centrifugal force
to keep bodies splayed up against the walls
until the motion stops.
Then, everyone slides down
into the slowing center,
some breaking the falls of others,
all without a foothold
descending into a closed circle,
marking the end
of a wild ride.
The carnage is real,
the inevitable consequence of undeclared war;
greed, dishonesty, speculation,
weapons of mass destruction:
a crisis, a travesty,
a legacy of lies.
A gaping black hole
breathes its dark whirling breath
inches from our eyelashes:
it is a maelstrom in waiting,
growing, expanding, disappearing
into a vortex of unlimited capacity
where all matter is consumed and transformed
into pure energy.
Inertia is no longer an option,
stasis has become impossible;
we are hurled by unstoppable trajectory
into a future young, inchoate,
Poised and ready,
we are standing on the event horizon,
the dawn of insight, a threshold
where imagination meets and merges
Once we were scattered like
stars across the night sky
now we become a beam of light
able to penetrate deep into dark places.
We link arms,
step beyond hesitation, united;
just one paycheck from the street
and one moment
Joan Annsfire is a Berkeley based poet and writer whose work has appeared previously in Poet’s Basement.
Native Plants and Aliens
by ROBERT A. DAVIES
So many plants in my garden native to Oregon,
to New England also.
Not the wild geranium
taken by a friend from Robert Frost’s back lot.
And not the wintergreen
because pines in New England
are supposed to have them.
It’s not nostalgia that makes me plant these aliens
but a sort of justice.
Maybe justice itself has become alien
to all these united states,
as drones fly above
poets and immigrants.
by ROBERT A. DAVIES
The CIA man down the street
has spent half the day
power washing his porch and steps.
He will never wash the blood away.
Robert A. Davies has been living in Portland a long time, in Oregon longer. He has recently appeared in Windfall, Poetrymagazine.com and in CounterPunch. His latest book is Melons And Mendelssohn.
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