Come with me on
a trip to bountiful
where the trees hide
little mysteries.
We can move our hips
on liberty’s highway
a red winged blackbird
will shout and up above
the owlets gaze
while we dance on
venom’s grave. Yes!
Democracy must ring
true while we sway
in nature’s view.
Our shoes are made
for marching long
miles and steps to go –
we’ve come this way
before. Freedom for
the two alas that
won’t mean me and you.
With the shadow of the chain
old white men in Philadelphia could
not keep it from
the necks of browner skin.
The bittersweet measure of
each forward step meets
a swastika pushing back.
The pushback turns
to dancing steps
let us jiggle on steady
ground and leave those
graves behind us
as we stick our
turtle necks out.
There is no history of
shout here, I want
to crawl back inside,
hide yourself, Anne,
just hide.
But the music
hidden in mysteries
of the tallest and
widest of trees –
It beckons and the
craziness echoes
if we cease to speak.
So un-think this voice
that quivers and dance
along with me.
I cannot offer justice
for human history,
all I have to give
is a prayer
and this poem.
Anne's mediocre poetry 