Mother, movement, civil rights-

These words are not enough,

Praising her in darkest nights,

Convincing, brave, and tough …

Rosa Parks, in fifty-five,

December, chose to change,

Chance the tribulation’s jive

So things could rearrange.

Southern ranking prejudice,

Compounded in its fuss,

Valued in its edifice,

To force her on a bus

Placing her beyond the rear,

Despite an empty seat.

Rosa Parks removed her fear

And planted firmly feet.

Busses were a public choice,

A transportation screen,

Rosa spoke her mind and voice

But met with the obscene.

Driver called the cops and fueled

Requesting her arrest

On that day injustice ruled,

As “white laws” would attest.

She, a woman of great class,

Prevailing in her cause

Would not let such hatred pass-

Discrimination’s claws.

Peace and civil liberty,

She sought a greater good.

Stood to thwart hypocrisy

As truth was understood.

Rosa let the caged bird sing,

America would hear.

Dr. Martin Luther King

Responded in his cheer.

Jr. praised her every move-

Responsive in his pride,

Equal rights, the cog and groove-

They could not be denied.

Alabama, in the South

A woman rightly proved

Action spoke as freedom’s mouth-

“No, I shall not be moved.”

Thunder under foot about;

Her race marched to her roar,

Gentle lioness’s shout-

Abiding shore to shore.

Black and white, uneven two,

Until all joined as one-

Making grey the common hue

As justice would be done.

Statutes offered pressed in shape

But Rosa Parks declined

Separation’s falling drape

Created color blind.

Equal as no skin tone made

A man or woman less,

Virtuousity displayed

Her presence would confess.

Truly she was awe inspired

In civil movement’s flare.

Perseverance never tired-

She held the torch with care.

Raising still the blazing marks

If prejudice may call,

Thanks to those like Rosa Parks

Equality for all

Will not slip into the cracks

Of failure, sewn in thread

Joining hands of whites and blacks,

Together, breaking bread.

Rosa now has gone away,

A mother, matron, queen.

Victory is on display-

Equality is seen …

Truly missed, defeating plights-

A soul that kindles sparks,

“Mother of all Civil Rights”

For you, Mrs. Rosa Parks.

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

The grass grows deep in shades of green-

From underneath, they can't be seen

Exploring roots of earth below,

Intent on nurturing the flow

Of evolution, tied and bound-

Insistent field mice underground

Determined in their pensive holes

Elicit wonder; have they souls?

The ploughman digs and tills the well,

Evicting rodents where they dwell

And for as such, what good are they?

An incubated notion's stay?

For mice- they have a family den

Where life and death at once begin.

So just because a ploughman can,

Does he belittle all but man?

No! Life is precious all around,

But seldom is the reason found

To hold upon the sacred vow

When living for the here and now-

Embrace the wind and feel the breeze

Or watch the sun in setting ease-

Have harvesters, a scattered seed,

Replaced compassion and the need

To honor Mother Nature's land?

The lack of penance fills the hand.

I sit upon a hill to see

The day of Death encompass me-

My love for all the great and small,

From tiny shrubs to woodlands tall,

Has granted peace, serenity,

And proven Life's divinity-

The sacred code of Nature's way

Entices me as mice will play,

And minutes ticking hourly pass,

I turn again to think of grass ...

Interviewed

Human Resources

pulled out all the stops

I can speak 

I answered

When did

and how did you

I thought 

I answered

this game

these roles

my enthusiasm

pulled me up 

and over

the equestrian

and the nimble pony

jumped hoops for two hours

and then 

the writing test

the joy of something concrete to create

to form into an excellent enterprise

My heart soared

the clouds parted

this is where i want to land

Land a job

where i can make the ugly beautiful

the depressing hopeful

the circus a land of expertise

I wrote

and wrote some

more

my soul eased into the venture...

He draws stars from his pocket

and throws them afar

like gems in bright swirls

creating galaxies in whirls

with unexplored worlds

in Goldilocks zones

giving life a home

where water freezes and steams

and the vital spark gleams

so that ichthyostega’s spawn

crawls from the mud

and one day may dream.

The Earth is square,

My bed is round,

I can jump down the stairs

Without making a sound,

And then I jump back up higher.

When the Earth gets in a funny mood,

You can do whatever you desire,

It would in fact be very rude,

To not have fun when the world wants to play.

I don’t remember

Whether she beat me

With the buckle end

Or the strap

Or both

I don’t recall any blood

Or bruises

Maybe I was just too fast for her

I don’t know why she raged at me

Some sort of disrespect perceived

or misdirected anger and frustration

I have screamed

When the volcano boils over

I hate myself after

Apologize and explain

And hope its enough

She chased me through the house

I was percolating with fear.

The blows fell on me

Near the aluminum trash can

By the side of the desk

In their bedroom

My father was never home,

He knew the weather

But never the climate

I was a thin child

I put my hands up

At 18 I was almost six feet tall

She was five foot one

I was always the moving target

Fear and anger are my white complexion

A blizzard I cannot shake off

She chased me

And punished me

And chased me

Until one final day

In the front entranceway

I turned and smacked her once

Good and hard

across the face

She never hit me again.

I don’t know what I learned from this

Whatever it was

Whatever it is

I hate it.

To be rude to the man who cut in line

Who stands two feet in front of me

With an arrogant smile

Quite satisfied that he will get there

One minute before me

To be angry at the ignorance

Of the masses who don't know better

Who are willing to nominate a tyrant

Because they are being targeted

By those promising everything

But secretly know nothing

To be devastated by the violence

That is on our tv's

And is created by our dollars

At the movies and the taxes

That we pay

I choose not to be

Not to be the one 

Perpetrating such ugliness

To fan the flames of retribution

And pour gasoline on those 

So rotten from hate

For being rotten on the inside 

Is its own punishment

Even if they won't 

Consciously admit it 

Wrath decays your heart

And late at night

They have to listen

To the voice that whispers

That their selfish motives

Will be the downfall of mankind

So, I choose not to be 

Not to be anything like them

Otherwise I can't

Look my child in the eyes and know

The world I am creating for him