Dreaming Change 2008
 
paper fragments swirl
on the Denver pavement,
unearned prizes
laid at my feet
by an August breeze.

lover of words
and clean sidewalks,
i bend to the
smudged inkjet words,
gathering
paper shards,
chasing one scrap
down
until I have them
all,
shaking my head
at my fool self
all the while.

at a coffee shop
i read what I can,
placing each scrap on the
cool tabletop, knowing
this puzzle
has too many
pieces missing.

promise we need to keep...
now... history teaches us...
God bless... as one... the world
coming to our shores...
change .... need now ... destiny,,,
not...the time for...small plans...

why do I squander time,
study these words as if
they are the Dead Sea Scrolls?
there’s a list to make,
and calls,
all because i have to do
something to help.
something.

nearly eight years now
this madness,
this country I have loved,
faded almost
beyond memory.

why do i keep forgetting
to breathe?

my former self
stirred itself awake once
in this dark time
to make a sorry sign
with bright markers,
to march to the state capitol.


that windy day i could breathe,
could feel the fire of life
blazing through my blood
as i folded myself
into a sea
of righteous energy,

very much alive
when the reporter
asked why i was there and
later on the front page
just beneath the fold
i said
“If we invade Iraq,
we become the terrorists.”

and you know they
did anyway, said it
wouldn’t take long,
we would be liberators
greeted with flowers,
it was not about oil at all.
there would be
few casualties. maybe none.

there is nothing casual about
death.

you know how it went.

so long in this tunnel
seeing no light
no light
until now
maybe,
maybe.

afraid to look straight into it
or the light could disappear
and then what to do
with all the hurt
what to do
with more pain?

enough pain will smother
courage and all the other
noble things.

once i was asked this:
beyond the food-shelter-water-air
of survival
what could you not live without?

hope.

so i call on St. Anthony,
retriever of things lost:
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony
take a look around,
something’s lost
that must be found.

fingering the scraps now
in my left pocket, I square
shoulders and sit up straight,
wondering if
St. Anthony has heard.

under my handbag,
a scrap of white,
clinging
to its leather life raft,
all the words
clear:

...the love of my life, Michelle.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII