Humanitarian Child (Indulge us a poem from time to time . . .)
Juniper was just the offspring of a hippy mama.
Melted candle wax
Wound around music
as they imagined new days.
Waifs, in bucket-seated tambourine banging hallucinations, growing fat
While their books weathered yellow under
Vivid purples and screaming hues.
Replacing dusty magazine covers.
Juniper was crammed into seats of dubious aircraft
flying close to deep green canopies. She had a picture of her mama
between electronic sheaves
pulled as quick as a magician's’ licks
while she passed out peanut butter cakes
to mamas holding children too quiet,
children who hadn’t strength to look up
mamas who couldn’t look fat pink ladies in the eyes.
Passing butter cookies under flapping canvas between the darkest suns.
Juniper was yapping and yelping between amber filled glasses,
She didn’t know where she might go, she might never know
What the job might do, what the job could mean,
Afghans, Sudanese, Haitians, Somalis,
Pashtun, Nuer, Mulattoes, Darods,
Waifs, on bucket-seated khat daze, growing thin
While their histories rot black under
Vivid rust and screaming wind
Scraping away any cover.
Juniper had pass cards and boots
That she wished she had under flappin canvas.
Thin hand held sparkle monitors
Shards of memories unfit together
As she described past days.
Paunchy yellow, held over the printer’s hum
Purple reports and screaming prose.
Dusty magazine covers remain.