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.

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

Disasters happen
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.