Humanitarian Child (Indulge us a poem from time to time . . .)

Juniper was just the offspring of a hippy mama.

Melted candle wax

Smoke mixtures

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.