Poem before dying

Lorca wrote of roosters,

of eating cemetery grass,

of weeping little boys,

of snow, of guitars, of murder,

of women dropping off to sleep,

of a resurrection that will never come,

and he makes me weep.

I write of barking dogs and feral cats,

of trash on asphalt courts,

of weeping little boys,

of warm summer nights,

of thumping bass and staccato beats,

of blue light custodians of violence

who sweep streets for casings

to put in envelops and file away,

of women dropping off to sleep,

of the resurrection that came

as a thief in night,

and still I weep.

Who will write our vignettes of revolution,

let barking dogs and feral cats come inside,

gather trash in the park,

comfort weeping boys,

organize funeral processions

on country roads where bodies lie hidden,

sip liquor from red plastic cups

at candle lit memorials,

clean the house and feed the children

so women can sleep at night,

sing the songs of freedom,

leave scriptures left half-open on the night stand

revealed on scraps of light

before the rooster crows, again,

and who will dry our tears…..we will.

(do not know date this was written) recognized by Jasper magazine