The Geese Cry Out

Tares make their own way

squeeze into each furrow sown

Wheat,

Rye,

Alfalfa,

Corn, Beets, Spuds.

Uranium,

rich and dangerous,

cuts veins through

Schist, Shale,

Sandstone, Slate.

Irrigation ditches divide pastures

dug at right angles to fences,

laid out just so by pioneer fathers,

demarcate that which concerns us,

from that which does not.

The left hand knows not

what the right hand has wrought:

Things knew their places,

Until my generation.

We cry out in confusion as we migrate,

East to Massachussetts,

South to California.

Like so many geese flying overhead,

Cousins honk out secrets,

one did not know that the other didn’t know:

"Honk!...Gave them nothing!"

"Honk!...Died destitute!"

"Honk!... Thru the window!"



Forgive us–we did not,

do not, know the lay of this land.

The clan’s unmentioned names,

the Dead,

furtive amid late

Great Grandmother’s letters,

whisper,

so we did not hear them:

"You kin come home now--

He did not die."



Andrea L. Seek 5/23/2007

The Heart Asks Pleasure First

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights! Wild Nights!

WILD nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

Emily Dickinson

P&S 2007