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Selected Poems

Drawings By Carl Harp 126-516

Being is my every breath, the truth I bathe in; Reality is my all even when it tears at me behind these walls. I will not look away, I have seen all the games, and though I am not perfect (who is?) I am not needing those things for they are not lasting.

South Africa’s Dark Heart

South Africa first entered into the American national consciousness this past summer when the sprawling, million person ghetto of Soweto rose up in protests that the police and army quickly turned into bloody riot.

The Republicans’ Nasty Little Screed

The Republican platform, in and of itself, is simply a nasty little screed, conceived in a moment of disappointment by the forces of Reagan. The monster off-spring of the reactionary right, it is loved only by its parents.

Little Soapy And Big Jim

We’re sailin up the Limpopo River from Fool’s Tide to Pope’s Eye. In some places we can reach out and touch the dried old balls of priests hanging from the trees way out over the river.