Music is Sacred

those of you who stand for the sanctity of music
so that its soul can breathe
and be heard
so that it blooms in graveyards
echoes in hotel hallways
awakens neighbors in the night
and fills peoples minds with fire
shout it out loud with whatever microphone you have
or these stones will shout for you.
jump in front of demons,
and stand over cowards and those who would intend
to rip out your lungs and dampen your desire
tell the living and the dead
what you know in your heart to be true
and what you know your ears
will forever hear
that the melody of the human race
is a song that never ends.
music is sacred.

This poem was first featured in Rolling Stone magazine.

All Intermediate Points

By Naomi Shihab Nye

If today you are going to Buda, Texas and the bus rolls into Buda, Texas and stops, you climb down and you are ready to climb down. Perhaps you sigh, make the great heave-ho. It has been a long trip. But if today you are going to St. Louis or Pittsburgh and the bus passes through Buda, Texas and someone else climbs down, it does not seem like such a long trip at all. This has always fascinated me. And if you are sitting in the bus terminal and the muddled loudspeaker announces ALL ABOARD FOR DEL RIO AND EL PASO AND ALL INTERMEDIATE POINTS, does the phrase "all intermediate points" wash over you pungently as the scent of the bus terminal hotcakes and do you eat them one at a time?

You May Have Heard of Me

By Shazea Quraishi 

My father was a bear.
He carried me through forest, sky
and over frozen sea. At night
I lay along his back
wrapped in fur and heat
and while I slept, he ran,
never stopping to rest, never
letting me fall.
He showed me how to be as careful as stone,
sharp as thorn and quick
as weather. When he hunted alone
he’d leave me somewhere safe – high up a tree
or deep within a cave.
And then a day went on …
He didn’t come.
I looked and looked for him.
The seasons changed and changed again.
Sleep became my friend. It even brought my father back.
The dark was like his fur,
the sea’s breathing echoed his breathing.
I left home behind, an empty skin.
Alone, I walked taller, balanced better.
So I came to the gates of this city
—tall, black gates with teeth.
Here you find me, keeping my mouth small,
hiding pointed teeth and telling stories,
concealing their truth as I conceal
the thick black fur on my back.

Take It Away

By Ronald Clark

Come on America, open your eyes
And stop the politicians from telling their lies
For their families won't come to death row
For they have money and power, you know
It's only the poor that will lay here and die.
For the rich do not qualify
And this you cannot deny
Nor can you justify
So let's take it away
And end it today
And stop another poor man from dying this way.


Ronald Clark was previously published in this blog.  This poem previously appeared here.  

Motherhood is

A found poem from Google by Tania Lombrozo

Motherhood is hard
Motherhood is lonely
Motherhood is a choice
Motherhood is magical

Star Wars Love

By Eve Lyons

My spouse is obsessed with Darth Vader. She wanted to get married in her Darth Vader helmet, and I have to keep fighting off her attempts to wear the helmet to bed. The main reason I would never agree to this is that it would mean I am Amidala, and that would mean either I am dead or our love is dead, or both. I am, at heart, deeply superstitious. I never wanted to be a princess anyway. When I was a kid, I never wanted to be Princess Leia - I wanted to be Han Solo, traveling the galaxy unattached, having adventures. Or R2-D2, because he always had all the answers. In fact, I think I am more C-3PO than anything. Constantly worrying and a little nervous, with tons of useless knowledge. And if I am C-3P0, I think that means my spouse is actually R2-D2, because they’re pretty much a couple. Maybe I should get her that costume and have her start wearing it to bed.


Previously published in voxpoetica, January 22, 2011