Ananse’s Grave
We hated here and now,
we wasted space for some gold rush.
If told to trade we would for the emptiness
that was born of the earth’s touch.
We created here and now
and never was a sound so loosely sung,
heard across the latitudes of whatever laid in our way.
Meanwhile beneath those bridges, through rustling leaves,
the spider and his stories weave.
Tales grow as tall as a warrior’s bloodline,
as tight knit as the women’s patterns.
Our children have been to Ananse’s grave
surprised to find the prince of cunning so depraved.
“Take the words off our hearts,” they said.
Well today even those words are dead.
Two Times An Outlaw
Two times an outlaw
and I wish dead friends would come around more.
But they shot out their luck;
Smoke from the barrel, that’s the fragrance they wore.
Convinced martyrs but now all dead to the cause.
Two times an outlaw,
crimes of passion committed on chords.
Strum for justice, strum for awards.
Let your singing sustain these sons of the slain.
Two times an outlaw.
