I would like to tell you
I acted out of deep faith
or that God sent me a dream
to prophesy this helpless baby
would grow up to deliver us
all out of Egypt.
But I can't.


Year after year
Shifrah and I struggled
to help mothers push newborns
out of their bodies and
into the world.
Hour after hour
we used the secret knowledge
of our sacred calling,
gentle words of encouragement,
our own powerful hands.
Oh the joy and triumph
when a wet head finally
crosses over, the transport
in every mother's eyes,
pain behind her now.


Besides, Jochebed
was my neighbor: could I
kill her son?


Hebrew cries were camel grunts
to Pharaoh's ears
so when we told him
our women delivered their babies
before we midwives could arrive
- that Hebrew women, unlike Egyptian women,
poured babies from their bodies
like wine from a jug - 
that stubborn, distrustful, arrogant man
naturally
believed us.
 
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,   
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks--
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.   
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,   
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me   
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock   
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space   
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths   
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
 
What is to weep?  To weep is to sow.     
What is to laugh?  To laugh is to reap.
Look at this man weeping as he goes.
Why is he weeping?
Because he is bearing in his arms the burden of the grain he is
about to sow.

And now, see him coming back in joy. 
Why is he laughing?
Because he bears in his arms the sheaves of the harvest.
Laughter is the tangible harvest, plentitude.
Tears are sowing; they are effort, risk, the seed exposed to
drought and to rot, the ear of corn threatened by hail
and storms.

Laughter is words, tears are silence…

It is not the harvest that is important; what is important is the
sowing, the risk, the tears.
Hope is not in laughter and plentitude.
Hope is in tears, in the risk and in its silence.

 
Poor old lady, she swallowed a fly.
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a spider.
It squirmed and wriggled and turned inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a bird.
How absurd!   She swallowed a bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider,
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a cat.
Thank of that!   She swallowed a cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird.
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a dog.
She went the whole hog when she swallowed the dog.
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat,
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a cow.
I don't know how she swallowed a cow.
She swallowed the cow to catch the dog,
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat,
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird,
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider,
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly,
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady, she swallowed a horse.
She died, of course.
 
There are so many roots to the tree of anger   
that sometimes the branches shatter   
before they bear.

Sitting in Nedicks
the women rally before they march   
discussing the problematic girls   
they hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes   
a waiting brother to serve them first   
and the ladies neither notice nor reject   
the slighter pleasures of their slavery.   
But I who am bound by my mirror   
as well as my bed
see causes in colour
as well as sex

and sit here wondering   
which me will survive   
all these liberations.
 
Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their
tough shells—the smooth chocolaty
skin of them—thanks for the boiling water--

itself a miracle and a mystery--
thanks for the seasoned sauce pan
and the old wooden spoon—and all

the neglected instruments in the drawer--
the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife--
the apple slicer that creates six

perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson--
thanks for the humming radio—thanks
for the program on the radio

about the guy who was a cross-dresser--
but his wife forgave him—and he
ended up almost dying from leukemia--

(and you could tell his wife loved him
entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)--
thanks for the brined turkey--

the size of a big baby—thanks--
for the departed head of the turkey--
the present neck—the giblets

(whatever they are)—wrapped up as
small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs--
thanks—thanks—thanks--for the candles

lit on the table—the dried twigs--
the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase--
thanks—for the faces--our faces—in this low light.
 
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

 
Tragedy
Samarity
Hurtness and Prosperity
Who should live
Who should survive
Who to help and who to guide

Disasters happen
Tornadoes
a flood
Hurricane Tsunami
Earthquakes and blood

Whatever it is
Disasters do strike
People need to know
How to save others life

One moment you're rich
While the other guy's poor
But in an instant you're equal
No one's less
No one's more

Your perspective on things
Becomes different from before
You look through new eyes
And it's clear what's at store

You must work with others
As a team and as bros
Nobody has any enemies or foes

Life is reality
Your blindness is peeled
You’re starting to feel now
That everything is real

Desperate times call for desperate measures
Everything you cherish
Becomes desperate treasures
You may lose yourself
On the way to defend
But stay true to yourself
To your heart
To your friend

Worst thing that happens
Is you'll lose lots of things
But what isn't lost is simplicity
Your new outlook on the world
And to the world
What you bring.

 
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
     The road is forlorn all day, 
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
     And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, 
     Expend their bloom in vain.  
Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. 


The birds have less to say for themselves 
     In the wood-world’s torn despair 
Than now these numberless years the elves, 
     Although they are no less there: 
All song of the woods is crushed like some 
    Wild, easily shattered rose. 
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, 
     Where the boughs rain when it blows. 


There is the gale to urge behind 
     And bruit our singing down, 
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
     From which to gather your gown. 
What matter if we go clear to the west, 
     And come not through dry-shod? 
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
     The rain-fresh goldenrod. 


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells 
     But it seems like the sea’s return 
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
     Before the age of the fern; 
And it seems like the time when after doubt 
     Our love came back amain. 
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
     And be my love in the rain. 
 
I wanna be the leader
I wanna be the leader
Can I be the leader?
Can I? I can?
Promise? Promise?
Yippee I'm the leader
I'm the leader

OK what shall we do?