Color
Tra-la-la
The world is full of colored
people
Tra-la-la-la-la.
Their skins are pink and yellow
and brown
All colored people
People of Color
Colored people
Tra-la-la.
Some have full lips
Some have thin
Full of colored people
People of Color
Colored lips
Tra-la-la.
The world is full of
colored people
People of Color
Colorful people
Tra-la-la!
THESE DAYS
Some words for people I think of as friends.
These days I think of Belvie
swimming happily in the country pond
coating her face with its mud.
She says:
“We could put the whole bottom of this pond in jars
and sell it to the folks
in the city!”
Lying in the sun she dreams
of making our fortune, à la Helena Rubenstein.
Bottling the murky water
too smelly to drink,
offering exotic mud facials and mineral baths
at exorbitant fees.
But mostly she lies in the sun
dreaming of water, sun and the earth
itself—
Surely the earth can be saved for Belvie.
These days I think of Robert
folding his child’s tiny shirts
consuming TV dinners (“A kind of processed flavor”)
rushing off each morning to school—then to the office,
the supermarket, the inevitable meeting: writing,
speaking, marching against oppression, hunger,
ignorance.
And in between having a love affair
with tiny wildflowers and gigantic
rocks.
“Look at this one!” he cries,
as a small purple face
raises its blue eye to the sun.
“Wow, look at that one!” he says,
as we pass a large rock
reclining beside the road.
He is the man with child
the new old man.
Brushing hair, checking hands, nails
and teeth.
A sick child finds comfort
lying on his chest all night
as do I.
Surely the earth can be saved for Robert.
These days I think of Elena.
In the summers, for years, she camps
beside the Northern rivers
sometimes with her children
sometimes with women friends
from “way, way back.”
She is never too busy to want at least
to join a demonstration
or to long to sit
beside
a river.
“I will not think less of you
if you do not attend this meeting,” she says,
making us compañeras for life.
Surely the earth can be saved for Elena.
These days I think of Susan;
so many of her people lost
in the Holocaust. Every time I see her
I can’t believe it.
“You have to have some of my cosmos seeds!”
she says
over the phone. “The blooms
are glorious!”
Whenever we are together
we eat a lot.
If I am at her house
it is bacon, boiled potatoes,
coffee and broiled fish:
if she is at my house it is
oyster stew, clams, artichokes
and wine.
Our dream is for time in which
to walk miles together, a couple
of weeds stuck between our teeth,
comfy in our yogi pants
discoursing on Woolf
and child raising,
essay writing and gardening.
Susan makes me happy
because she exists.
Surely the earth can be saved for Susan.
These days I think of Sheila.
“‘Sheila’ is already a spiritual name,” she says.
And “Try meditation and jogging both.”
When we are together we talk
and talk
about The Spirit.
About What is Good and What is Not.
There was a time she applauded my anger,
now she feels it is something I should outgrow.
“It is not a useful emotion,” she says. “And besides,
if you think about it, there’s nothing worth
getting angry about.”
“I do not like anger,” I say.
“It raises my blood pressure.
I do not like violence. So much has been done to me.
But having embraced my complete being
I find anger
and the capacity for violence
within me.
Control
rather than eradication
is about the best
I feel I can do.
Besides, they intend to murder us,
you know.”
“Yes, I understand,” she says.
“But try meditation
and jogging both ;
you’ll be surprised how calm you feel.”
I meditate, walk briskly, and take deep, deep breaths
for I know the importance of peace to the inner self.
When I talk to Sheila
I am forced to honor
my own ideals.
Surely the earth can be saved for Sheila.
These
Tra-la-la
The world is full of colored
people
Tra-la-la-la-la.
Their skins are pink and yellow
and brown
All colored people
People of Color
Colored people
Tra-la-la.
Some have full lips
Some have thin
Full of colored people
People of Color
Colored lips
Tra-la-la.
The world is full of
colored people
People of Color
Colorful people
Tra-la-la!
THESE DAYS
Some words for people I think of as friends.
These days I think of Belvie
swimming happily in the country pond
coating her face with its mud.
She says:
“We could put the whole bottom of this pond in jars
and sell it to the folks
in the city!”
Lying in the sun she dreams
of making our fortune, à la Helena Rubenstein.
Bottling the murky water
too smelly to drink,
offering exotic mud facials and mineral baths
at exorbitant fees.
But mostly she lies in the sun
dreaming of water, sun and the earth
itself—
Surely the earth can be saved for Belvie.
These days I think of Robert
folding his child’s tiny shirts
consuming TV dinners (“A kind of processed flavor”)
rushing off each morning to school—then to the office,
the supermarket, the inevitable meeting: writing,
speaking, marching against oppression, hunger,
ignorance.
And in between having a love affair
with tiny wildflowers and gigantic
rocks.
“Look at this one!” he cries,
as a small purple face
raises its blue eye to the sun.
“Wow, look at that one!” he says,
as we pass a large rock
reclining beside the road.
He is the man with child
the new old man.
Brushing hair, checking hands, nails
and teeth.
A sick child finds comfort
lying on his chest all night
as do I.
Surely the earth can be saved for Robert.
These days I think of Elena.
In the summers, for years, she camps
beside the Northern rivers
sometimes with her children
sometimes with women friends
from “way, way back.”
She is never too busy to want at least
to join a demonstration
or to long to sit
beside
a river.
“I will not think less of you
if you do not attend this meeting,” she says,
making us compañeras for life.
Surely the earth can be saved for Elena.
These days I think of Susan;
so many of her people lost
in the Holocaust. Every time I see her
I can’t believe it.
“You have to have some of my cosmos seeds!”
she says
over the phone. “The blooms
are glorious!”
Whenever we are together
we eat a lot.
If I am at her house
it is bacon, boiled potatoes,
coffee and broiled fish:
if she is at my house it is
oyster stew, clams, artichokes
and wine.
Our dream is for time in which
to walk miles together, a couple
of weeds stuck between our teeth,
comfy in our yogi pants
discoursing on Woolf
and child raising,
essay writing and gardening.
Susan makes me happy
because she exists.
Surely the earth can be saved for Susan.
These days I think of Sheila.
“‘Sheila’ is already a spiritual name,” she says.
And “Try meditation and jogging both.”
When we are together we talk
and talk
about The Spirit.
About What is Good and What is Not.
There was a time she applauded my anger,
now she feels it is something I should outgrow.
“It is not a useful emotion,” she says. “And besides,
if you think about it, there’s nothing worth
getting angry about.”
“I do not like anger,” I say.
“It raises my blood pressure.
I do not like violence. So much has been done to me.
But having embraced my complete being
I find anger
and the capacity for violence
within me.
Control
rather than eradication
is about the best
I feel I can do.
Besides, they intend to murder us,
you know.”
“Yes, I understand,” she says.
“But try meditation
and jogging both ;
you’ll be surprised how calm you feel.”
I meditate, walk briskly, and take deep, deep breaths
for I know the importance of peace to the inner self.
When I talk to Sheila
I am forced to honor
my own ideals.
Surely the earth can be saved for Sheila.
These
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