The brown babies are threatening
grownup men and please,
the sorrow that hangs like tinsel
upon a Christmas tree
weaves into the branches
never breaking free – no
baby should ever threaten
when dementia has taken hold
and clings like a cocklebur
upon my well-worn clothes.
Sing Sweet Honey sing the
songs of conscience –
hang on.
Children are always dying
from grownup lack of care,
in war zone of the tropics,
or back alley in my hood,
or even in the classroom-
the gun, the gun will rule
and yes, the terns may dive
for food in their wetland
home, endangered though
they be, our children
shouldn’t have to dive
to merely hang on –
sing Sweet Honey sing
the songs of conscience-
hang on.
They always have an
ace in the hole,
explaining every wrong,
they know how to curve
a word, a sentence
spitting with rigorous
might, oh the
alchemy of the trite.
A muse should sing
like Sweet Honey in the Rock-
those songs of conscience
hang on, alas
mine is sadly gone-
all that is left
is this unsung song.
Anne's mediocre poetry 