And say simply
Mold it into the shape of your most
They hear. They all hear
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
Which will not be moved.
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
With hope
You may have the grace to look up and out
Good morning.
The river sings and sings on.
Praying for a dream.
Private need. Sculpt it into
Armed forslaughter.
Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,
The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
Here on the pulse of this new day
You, created only a little lower than
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree
Lift up your eyes upon
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Do not be wedded forever
If you will study war no more.
On our planet floor,
Into your brothers face, your country
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
Face down in ignorance.
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.
The day breaking for you.
There is a true yearning to respond to
A river sings a beautiful song,
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
Back and face your distant destiny,
Mark the mastodon.
Today, the first and last of every tree
Each of you, descendant of some passed on
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
The bruising darkness,
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,
You, who gave me my first name,
To the dream.
To fear, yoked eternally
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
And into your sisters eyes,
Your armed struggles for profit
The singing river and the wise rock.
I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
You may have the courage
Need not be lived again.
The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Across the wall of the world,
The speaking of the tree.
Come rest here by my side.
Traveller, has been paid for.
You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
The image of your most public self.
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow
Very simply
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom
To brutishness.
Come, you may stand upon my
The Creator gave to me when I
But do not hide your face.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs
Each new hour holds new chances
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
The angels, have crouched too long in
For this bright morning dawning for you.
Women, children, men,
And the tree and stone were one.
For new beginnings.
Have lain too long
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,
Give birth again
But seek no haven in my shadow.
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Lift up your hearts.
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
Then forced on bloody feet,
And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
I am the tree planted by the river,
Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
Delicate and strangely made proud,
The horizon leans forward,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,
Your mouths spelling words
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,
Each of you a bordered country,
Left me to the employment of other seekers--
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Of their sojourn here
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Hosts to species long since departed,
To look up and out upon me,
Have left collars of waste upon
History, despite its wrenching pain,
