Neda

Every movement needs a martyr, I suppose
as long as men with guns make laws
marching in the streets
where theocracy and democracy
intersect in a place called hypocrisy

oh it can't happen here-- but it has

blood spills onto the pavement
the blood of the innocent
armed only with belief
that this should be a better world

and men with guns, sitting high in their chambers,
pull triggers by some strange remote control
cutting short her life;
her blood is on their hands,
no less than on the one who sent the bullet flying--
there was but one innocent here

and in the halls of democracy
they condemn, forgetting how
we also killed our young
self-righteously smug in their robes of
red white and blue

her blood has changed the color of the world
and turned it scarlet
for scarlet is the color of shame,
the shame of men with guns

her heart pumps blood out the bullet hole
and their crying cannot stop it
she is the face who haunts our dreams
she is the face the world will remember
Neda, who died for a belief

some of us never forget
some of us can't
because we know
that power and guns
mean more blood will be spilled
more children will die
more mothers will cry

shit happens,
I can hear those voices now--
and the shame is yours, too;
for every action there is a reaction.
and like the bullet that is sent flying
like the child who lies there dying
if your callous disregard for precious life
if your philosophy is based on this --
shit happens,

I have an ocean of pity for you.

Neda did not die for you.




*********************************

Night Watch

I sit and listen to thunder in the distance, growling, as the storm prowls
off over the Everglades, and the heat is not so bad tonight;
but the humidity is a skin of perspiration
if you walk out into the mosquito-patrolled darkness.

Out to the west, lightning splits the night sky fitfully--
but it's only a tease;
there won't be any rain here tonight.


It's almost time, and I know,
I know.

But after all these years, it's going to be hard
to say goodbye;
to touch that soft fur one last time
and look into those baby blue eyes
through the tears.

And the way he lies on his blanket,
curled in a feline fetal position,
unable to walk on one leg anymore,
holding it against his side
in self-defense.

Don't touch it, he cries--
just don't.

And he reminds me of my father
curled up in childlike posture
full of sleep and tired...
so tired.

And I know.

It's almost time.
Almost.