HARAMBEE GREY-SUN

Harambee Grey-Sun: My poetry has appeared in a handful of literary journals, including CrossConnect, Epicenter, RiverSedge, the South Carolina Review, theSquaw Valley Review, and the Wisconsin Review. I am the author of Wine Songs, Vinegar Verses and Spring’s Fall (Autumn Numbers, Book I). I am also an alumnus of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley.

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OUR SAVED AND SOVEREIGN EMPIRE by Harambee Grey-Sun

All of us here mired in Heaven
may safely shut our eyes,
taking advantage of the unsuspecting quiet
ones, spun out of the rare caring guardians’ orbit
and into an immature satire of nature,
an artless work intended to make
a mess of the rotating stages.

Children, kill your parents.
Adults, don’t have kids.
Poorly put, but moral taught.
Boys and girls, even though heavily armed

with double-edged grudges,
will ease away from the extremes and settle
in the muddle—the Fear of Love, chilled
and instilled while they’re odd and young--
promising us Archangels unending evenings
embracing the unchanging, faceless dark.

​DISPLACE.  REMODIFY.  By Harambee Grey-Sun 

There are no homeless in the airport, only the bewildered
and indignant with certain insecurities
concerning time zones, destinations.  
The guttural cries of children, agonies of adults subjected
to turbulent shifts in plans, our moaning cushioned with threats
about what will happen when the unexpected
happens yet again.

We all may as well be dressed in sackcloth, faceless, 
carping prophets in a land untraced by divinities, 
made less and less as we jostle and
shuffle through the gates
down the tunnel
with a dim, 
cramped
cabin
at its
end.

But we adapt to our new surroundings, distract what’s left
of ourselves with wireless gadgets, against all stressed advice
about ensuring safety.  In reality, the devices we hold and 
the vices we swear we don’t all have tendrils digging in,
entwining blood vessels and nerves, which tighten 
and jerk during taxi, then tremble
upon the realization
God is an adverb
waiting
for us.