Shake the Dust by Anis Mojgani

so this is the second poem that's not mine. oh well.

This is for the fat girls.

This is for the little brothers.

This is for the school-yard wimps

and for the childhood bullies who tormented them.

This is for the former prom queen

this is for the milk-crate ball players.

This is for the nighttime cereal eaters

and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters.

Shake the dust.

This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,

for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,

for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,

for the nighttime schoolers

and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly.

Shake the dust.

This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood

because they speak half-English and half-god.

Shake the dust.

For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,

for those gym class wall flowers

and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,

for the kid who's always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,

for the girl who loves somebody else.

Shake the dust.

This is for the hard men,

who want to love but know that it won't come.

For the ones who are forgotten

the ones the amendments do not stand up for.

For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to

and then are never spoken to.

Speak every time you stand

so you do not forget yourself.

Do not let a moment go by that doesn't remind you

that your heart beats 100,000 times a day

and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.

Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.

This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,

for the poetry teachers

and for the people who go on vacations alone.

For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers' singing lips

and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner's shaking hips,

for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.

This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who'll never be like the Cleavers

with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.

This is for the biggots,

this is for the sexists,

this is for the killers.

This is for the big house, pen-sentenced cats becoming redeemers

and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.

This? This is for you.

Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.

Because just like the days, I burn both ends

and every time I write, every time I open my eyes

I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.

So shake the dust and take me with you

when you do for none of this has never been for me.

All that pushes and pulls,

and pushes and pulls,

pushes and pulls for you.

So grab this world by its clothespins

and shake it out again and again

and jump on top and take it for a spin

and when you hop off shake it again

for this is yours.

Make my words worth it,

make this not just another poem that I write,

not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.

Walk into it,

breathe it in,

let it crash through the halls of your arms

like the millions of years

and millions of poets

coursing like blood

pumping and pushing making you live,

shaking the dust.

So when the world knocks at your front door,

clutch the knob tightly and open on up,

running forward into its widespread greeting arms

with your hands before you,

fingertips trembling

though they may be.

You Must Fight

You must fight.
Awaken the sleeping dragon.
Let loose your passion,
Your anger,
Your eloquence.

Make some noise.

They will not listen to one.
They will not listen to two.
They will not listen to ten.
You must be a hundred,
A thousand.
You must stretch beyond their limits,
Beyond your comfort zone.

America was not made
By the lazy,
The apathetic.
America was forged
By those that rose up from their seats
And did something.

Make some noise.

Get off your rear ends,
Get down on your knees,
And pray.

Make some noise.

Stand up against the storm,
Stand tall and strong,
Stand with many
So you do not break.

You must fight.
Or you will surely fall.

Love?

It should be a crime,
That you make me giddy,
My stomach flips,
And you're not around.

You make me want to fly,
To sing,
And mostly dance.

And now I have to go and fight a battle,
Politics.
You have a firecracker,
And she doesn't have the time
To say all she wants to.

But know there is a lot more
Where this came from.

Prom

And somehow,
You make it home safe,
With the echo of music in your ears,
Thanks to God in your head,
And the touch of him on your lips.

And you're thanking God
That he took the time to make
Such a man,
Who laughs with you,
Who dances with you,
Who treats you like a lady,
A treasure.

And you're lying on your bed,
No remnents of the dance
But a dress in the corner,
Fallen curls,
And the quiet,
Quiet
Memory of your first kiss.

Time slips through fingers
Like water not molten glass.
And you can't catch it.

The Snow Unfurls

As time slowly turns to spring,
I remember the blurring snow
Across the road in front of me,
Not missing it.

But I recall the poetic beauty
Of the light snow,
Snaking its way across the street,
Moving gracefully,
Softly,
Quietly.

Common words,
Common themes,
Commen phenomena.
But each poem,
Though all tied to each other,
Is unique.

The snow unfurls along the road,
Like banners waving proud in the wind,
Like a poem sneaking out
Of her poet's lips.

Wisdom

Gained through experience,
Not lost through time.
Something revered,
Something treasured,
Something so hard to come by.

Knowledge is knowing the difference.
Wisdom is understanding it.