The Oracle leapt off at a rap-ish rhythm and she ranted her state of the world message.
Is anybody listening?
By and by the sky that seemed
so high became a stream that ran
its blue into the red of run-
ning deer and spread across the dead
and bare-baked sands.
I ask a friend to stop the flow
and grow the trees, to leave the grass
to green-grow garden-gold and bright,
but who hears words that call for change
except the birds?
Honey-yellow sun stretched rays
that reached into the shadow-shade
of shallow river beds as dry
as dust stalks dead and dying
in the wailing wind,
while we play in sterile waves,
the basin-bay of plastic death,
slow and sordid pictures mov-
ing fast, ferry us to the brink
of no return,
showering flowers with wealth that has
its price, a scavenging scourge of wind,
winding through the gullies scoured
of all their hidden treasures, where
the poor things hide.
Riding roughshod over lives
and loves, they call them lazy for
their lack of capital, a crime,
born poor without their rich blue blood,
just veins to drain.
The Oracle leapt off at a rap-ish rhythm and she ranted her state of the world message. Is anybody listening? By and by the sky that seemedso high became a stream that ranits blue into the red of run-ning deer and spread across the deadand bare-baked sands. I ask a friend to stop the flowand … Continue reading Is anybody listening?Read MoreJane Dougherty Writes
