— unpredictable thoughts

Inau­gural Poem

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their has­ten­ing doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, force­fully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your dis­tant des­tiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hid­ing place down here.

You, cre­ated only a lit­tle lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruis­ing dark­ness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beau­ti­ful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bor­dered coun­try,
Del­i­cate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrust­ing per­pet­u­ally under siege.

Your armed strug­gles for profit
Have left col­lars of waste upon
My shore, cur­rents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my river­side,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Cre­ator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cyn­i­cism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearn­ing to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the His­panic, the Jew
The African and Native Amer­i­can, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Mus­lim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The priv­i­leged, the home­less, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speak­ing of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant your­self beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descen­dant of some passed
On trav­eller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Chero­kee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employ­ment of
Other seekers–desperate for gain,
Starv­ing for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the Ger­man, the Scot …
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriv­ing on a night­mare
Pray­ing for a dream.

Here, root your­selves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours–your Pas­sages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a pierc­ing need
For this bright morn­ing dawn­ing for you.

His­tory, despite its wrench­ing pain,
Can­not be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day break­ing for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, chil­dren, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Pri­vate need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most pub­lic self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wed­ded for­ever
To fear, yoked eter­nally
To brutishness.

The hori­zon leans for­ward,
Offer­ing you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, into
Your brother’s face, your coun­try
And say sim­ply
Very sim­ply
With hope
Good morning.