War fused us.

Vietnam left you leery of spider holes;

Chad left me mourning a midnight escape.

But poets don’t thrive in fear and regret.

Weapons in words and hope we shape.

         Mortars are part of our duet.

You sheltering beyond bullets slicing flesh.

Me relying on the pounding of a pestle.

One word, two meanings that mesh.

Bullies score on every corner, sparking poets

To define the mission: speak up, don’t ever shut up.

Everyone seeks a way away in order to see:

From abroad we finger the devil’s debris.

You call it a helladise. Paradise shot to hell.

Asia or Africa: a diaspora linked by color.

Jazz beats lead us to the underground circuit.

We help slaves find a path, if they listen

To us who don’t find God in war: gone missing.

Our ears perk up to ancestors’ voices grousing.

They brace our inner griot to battle the Enemy:

A status quo that yet dumps corpses roadside

Or that forces blood to bubble up through lips

Turning blue as limbs fit today’s body bag.

Death hovers near our exit, but we’re not yet

At the door: let’s turn away from rotors that snag

From helicopters circling to pounce; let’s embrace

That soul suffering from the absent paternal,

As we become kin in rotating through change-waves

That hasten our destined dip in that river eternal.