A View of "To Brother Gil, Regarding the Revolution"

(We can be the change, if we choose to see that we have that power. We can be the revolution, if only we choose to be....)

We almost lost the revolution, dear Brother Gil.
We let it pass by without a second look
because it wasn't ridin' dirty down the block
in a triple black Mercedes E-Class with chrome rims,
cracked steering column, punched out dashboard,
and a 9mm semi in the passenger seat.

A View of "Mantra"

(This is an especially difficult piece. Someone I know and respect just experienced a very tragic loss. When I was told about what happened and how she was coping, everyone said, "She says she's fine, but...." The thought would trail off into the unspoken knowledge that we can not imagine what she's going through, and that she's as fine as can be expected right now. This poem is what I imagine is going through her mind and soul right now.)

How are you holding up?
I am fine.
I say this over and over,
I am fine.
I want to scream this at everyone who asks,
I am fine,
as I hang their coats and politely offer pastries,
I am fine.
My words stumble, ensnared in my throat.
I am fine.
I can only manage a meek whisper,
I am fine.

A View of "Migration of the rock pigeon"

(During my daily commute, one building I pass houses a probation and parole office. This morning, I saw a young man waiting to go inside. I could not see his face. He was huddled in the cold, his breath surrounding his hooded head like a halo. He was hunched over, as though he were told he could never stand straight again, like his spirit would not allow him to be upright. This poem came to me as I continued on my way.)

Little bird sits songless on a stoop,
a carrier trying to find the way home.
No longer penned in a well worn cage,
he still carries himself like he’s cooped up.
He once soared with contraband underfoot.
Now the only thing able under his power to fly
are messages to the Signal Corp;
a bird now wired, tethered to the ground,
beacon clasped to his tarsus.
Clipped wings wrapped about his breast,
head tucked under to keep warm,
he waits to return to his perch,
warm breath in the cold dawn air,
the only clouds in which he can nestle.
He never looks at the sun
beginning to soar in the morning sky.

(c) 2012 - Tracey Morris, All rights reserved



Photo of caged carrier pigeons on the battlefield

found on the Billionnaire Chronicles website.