Land of the Brave
Stranger in the brash new world
slick one-way free-ways
bee-hive airports
wide-god panorama skies
where lonesome cowboys cry
for vanishing railroad ties
served in rustic general stores by generous
wide-hipped smiling girls
enigmatic land
where lonely purple flat-top mountains
are just for Indians and defence installations
in city ghettos, so easy a knife in the gut
a bullet in the head, police siren's scream
siren's scream, and cops are not always
straight and true
Dallas is hard, concrete grey
still echoes with the bullets of JFK
Rogers Arkansas allows a presence
locals are wary, conservative with smiles
strangers are aliens, check-out girls scrutinize
traveller's cheques, American Express
call the manager for petty decisions
at the local thrift store
only six American dollars buys
a genuine coke bottle from Waco Texas
in the amber mountains of Arkansas
a succulent turkey turns
six hours in the smoking
followed by sweet honey-drippin' desert
old-world hospitality's time-warp
from walls, dressers, family photos hang
earnest eyes gaze, guns in holsters
leather spats, sepia tones of wild-west days
a china doll's innocent eyes stare, vacant
dressed in family's antique christening gown
in the corner a chubby, head-scarved
black-mammy doll sweeps stoically
with dust-pan and broom
nearby on a basket of straw and eggs
a fake chicken sits eternally nesting
from every nook and cranny wise proverbs hang
enscribed on china plates, truisms, folksy homilies
to keep your morals from going astray
the open hearts and homes of Austin
surely echo times past, paradox the city streets
empty of walkers, fear stalkers
even in the friendly places
San Francisco still trembles
paranoia between the quakes
induces giant migrane amid the beauty
of architecture, old-world still clung to
down-town crazy streets, hard
with homeless fast-food refuse swirls
unswept, buses circulate incomprehensibly
Haight Ashbury celebrates no yesterdays
Colarado stings with altitude
rocky mountain tourist village
fake German skiing, bourgeois swingers
Indians low-profile, art gallery high-profile
white ostentation middle management
grows fat on non-doing art space
in Taos the ancient mud village is proudly displayed
by courteous money-conscious guides
from a tiny doorway
an old woman catches my eye - beckons to me
surrounded by talismans she chants in the old tongue
beats the elk-skin drum for me
El Paso is primary colour, a naive mural
sunshine floods dry lanscape, stones throw
to third world Mexico, servant-master contracts
still flourish, women trudge across the border to sweep
clean, shop, cook - large homes sparkle for only
20 American dollars a day
everywhere sell, sell, sell modern artifacts
Mexican food, hot chilli, the colour red
disenfrancised migrants cross
the river - daily risk lives
negotiating electric borders
Sky City calls across the plain
the spirits of past battles chill to the bone
the Acoma people proud of their past
the old welcome the brash new -
uneasy alchemy
music pours from every living place
this land feeds on melody, country, rock, soul
jazz, blues, ballad, love song
the air steward's polite, organized, concise
no lost baggage, always on time, 'have a nice day'
in Taos New Mexico
the woman lives alone with her children
from a studio she sculpts, paints, writes, sings
angels on everything, river-stones, canvas
paper, tree-bark, pieces of wire curve
into angel-wing poem and story
she is besotted, obsessed with feathery
hierarchical spiritual orders, angels who can
do no wrong, never own an impure thought
always working for good
she gives me a river-stone
painted in gold with one of her angels
tells me it will be good for me - for going with the flow
by osmosis I get from her, steamy Georgia nights
river-boats, Mississipi blues, languid southern drawl
Tennessee Williams, something intangible
Alabama calls like a velvet night
jewels dotted on the air-borne landscape
Main Street Cincinnati, hostile with crack
disjointed with cold addictions
do not walk on the street alone at night
you will get bashed, whites live amid the stress
daily life pours on, poetry, capuccino
good cafe food, musicians, cameraderie
across the river - not too far -
red-necks live they say - hill-billies
but Kentucky remains a mystery for me
for we are Columbus bound
Pamela Sidney 1995
Stranger in the brash new world
slick one-way free-ways
bee-hive airports
wide-god panorama skies
where lonesome cowboys cry
for vanishing railroad ties
served in rustic general stores by generous
wide-hipped smiling girls
enigmatic land
where lonely purple flat-top mountains
are just for Indians and defence installations
in city ghettos, so easy a knife in the gut
a bullet in the head, police siren's scream
siren's scream, and cops are not always
straight and true
Dallas is hard, concrete grey
still echoes with the bullets of JFK
Rogers Arkansas allows a presence
locals are wary, conservative with smiles
strangers are aliens, check-out girls scrutinize
traveller's cheques, American Express
call the manager for petty decisions
at the local thrift store
only six American dollars buys
a genuine coke bottle from Waco Texas
in the amber mountains of Arkansas
a succulent turkey turns
six hours in the smoking
followed by sweet honey-drippin' desert
old-world hospitality's time-warp
from walls, dressers, family photos hang
earnest eyes gaze, guns in holsters
leather spats, sepia tones of wild-west days
a china doll's innocent eyes stare, vacant
dressed in family's antique christening gown
in the corner a chubby, head-scarved
black-mammy doll sweeps stoically
with dust-pan and broom
nearby on a basket of straw and eggs
a fake chicken sits eternally nesting
from every nook and cranny wise proverbs hang
enscribed on china plates, truisms, folksy homilies
to keep your morals from going astray
the open hearts and homes of Austin
surely echo times past, paradox the city streets
empty of walkers, fear stalkers
even in the friendly places
San Francisco still trembles
paranoia between the quakes
induces giant migrane amid the beauty
of architecture, old-world still clung to
down-town crazy streets, hard
with homeless fast-food refuse swirls
unswept, buses circulate incomprehensibly
Haight Ashbury celebrates no yesterdays
Colarado stings with altitude
rocky mountain tourist village
fake German skiing, bourgeois swingers
Indians low-profile, art gallery high-profile
white ostentation middle management
grows fat on non-doing art space
in Taos the ancient mud village is proudly displayed
by courteous money-conscious guides
from a tiny doorway
an old woman catches my eye - beckons to me
surrounded by talismans she chants in the old tongue
beats the elk-skin drum for me
El Paso is primary colour, a naive mural
sunshine floods dry lanscape, stones throw
to third world Mexico, servant-master contracts
still flourish, women trudge across the border to sweep
clean, shop, cook - large homes sparkle for only
20 American dollars a day
everywhere sell, sell, sell modern artifacts
Mexican food, hot chilli, the colour red
disenfrancised migrants cross
the river - daily risk lives
negotiating electric borders
Sky City calls across the plain
the spirits of past battles chill to the bone
the Acoma people proud of their past
the old welcome the brash new -
uneasy alchemy
music pours from every living place
this land feeds on melody, country, rock, soul
jazz, blues, ballad, love song
the air steward's polite, organized, concise
no lost baggage, always on time, 'have a nice day'
in Taos New Mexico
the woman lives alone with her children
from a studio she sculpts, paints, writes, sings
angels on everything, river-stones, canvas
paper, tree-bark, pieces of wire curve
into angel-wing poem and story
she is besotted, obsessed with feathery
hierarchical spiritual orders, angels who can
do no wrong, never own an impure thought
always working for good
she gives me a river-stone
painted in gold with one of her angels
tells me it will be good for me - for going with the flow
by osmosis I get from her, steamy Georgia nights
river-boats, Mississipi blues, languid southern drawl
Tennessee Williams, something intangible
Alabama calls like a velvet night
jewels dotted on the air-borne landscape
Main Street Cincinnati, hostile with crack
disjointed with cold addictions
do not walk on the street alone at night
you will get bashed, whites live amid the stress
daily life pours on, poetry, capuccino
good cafe food, musicians, cameraderie
across the river - not too far -
red-necks live they say - hill-billies
but Kentucky remains a mystery for me
for we are Columbus bound
Pamela Sidney 1995
