Newsgroups: bit.listserv.words-l
Date:         Thu, 21 Jan 1993 14:00:42 EST
From:         Entropy Warrior <AUSBROOK@UCS.INDIANA.EDU>
Subject:      From the Annals of Poetry

                       On the  Pulse of Morning
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the
mastodon, The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet
floor.  Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust
and ages.  But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you
may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my
shadow.  I will give you no more hiding place down here.  You, created only a
little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long Face down in ignorance.  Your mouths spilling words Armed
for slaughter.  The Rock cries out today, you may stand upon me, But do not
hide your face.  Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.  Each of you a bordered country.  Delicate and
strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.  Your armed
struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of
debris upon my breast.  Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will
study war no more. Come, Clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator
gave to me when I and the Tree and the stone were one. Before cynicism was a
bloody sear across your Brow and when you yet knew you still Knew nothing.  The
River sings and sings on.  There is a true yearning to respond to The singing
River and the wise Rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew The African
and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the
Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher, They hear, They all hear
The speaking of the Tree. Today, the first and last of every Tree Speaks to
humankind.  Come to me, here beside the River.  Plant yourself beside me, here
beside the River.  Each of you, descendant of some passed On traveller, has
been paid for.  You, who gave me my first name, you Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,
you Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then Forced on bloody feet, left me to
the employment of Other seekers -- desperate for gain, Starving for gold.  You,
the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...  You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the
Kru, bought Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream.  Here,
root yourselves beside me.  I am the Tree planted by the River, Which will not
be moved, I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours -- your Passages have
been paid.  Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright
morning dawning for you.  History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be
unlived, and if faced With courage, need not be lived again.  Lift up your eyes
upon The day breaking for you.  Give birth again To the dream.  Women,
children, men Take it into the palms of your hands.  Mold it into the shape of
your most Private need, Sculpt it into The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings.  Do not
be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness.  The horizon leans
forward, offering you space to place new steps of change.  Here, on the pulse
of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, the Rock,
the River, the Tree, your country.  No less to Midas than the mendicant.  No
less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You
may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, into Your
brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.

-Entropy Publishing, with apologies for the form(lessness).
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