(after Chagall’s The Blue Violinist)
Oh blue I sing my tune with string and bow,
I float above the town and everyone below
looks up and rises too and there the moon
holds heaven like a gift– bouquets of joy
unfold for everyone, we all take wing
and growing tall and young each find a love.
My hands like birds kiss the world with song–
I play my violin with lighted brow,
the music into blue, all blue, beyond
the gate I open light for you above
the church with eyes turned skyward too.
I Am the Refugee Walking
I am the refugee walking,
I am the rebel loading the mortar.
I am the woman, ankles held,
I am the blinded men who have her.
I am the slave brought to my knees,
I hold the lash.
I am the queer locked up,
I am the jailer locked in.
With indigenous tribes I am on the rise!
I hold the permit to extract the oil.
I am the gathering voice, the cry!
I am the wall of brutal fear.
I am the one who prays for peace,
who does not have enough to eat.
I am this bleating heart,
this chest strapped with explosive,
this yearning love
Gaia May Not Have Realized
Gaia may not have realized
Euclid’s axiom that any straight line
can infinitely be extended
when she built the Great Barrier Reef,
but I suspect so. I think of coral growing
from the tiniest polyps creating
crusty circles about themselves–
they propagate any way they can,
releasing gametes simultaneously
at the full moon– no straight lines in sight.
Isn’t that the way though? What delights
in shallow seas becomes life’s work,
just as these inconsequential scribbles
may become an opus, or the cricket
whose song holds up the night sky.
Carol Griffin writes poetry to explore life circumstance, both inner and outer. She is fascinated with how poems can transform us, delving into what it means to be human and our potential to move toward peace. Carol has been published in the Marin Poetry Center Anthology and Birdland Journal.
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