Richard Cambridge
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Richard Cambridge's poetry and theater productions address controversial themes on the American political landscape. His poetry has appeared in The Paterson Literary Review, Heartland Journal, Asheville Poetry Review and others. His awards include The Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize and he was a finalist for a residency at the Fine Arts Work Shop in Provincetown, MA. He is a long-time resident of Cambridge, MA where he curates the Poets' Theater at Club Passim, and helps run Squawk! a weekly open mic coffeehouse in Harvard Square. He was a member of the Boston Slam team that won the championship in 1992, and in 1997 won the individual Master's Slam at the National Poetry Slam. In 2003 he received the Cambridge Peace and Justice Award for the contributions of his art and activism. His current project is PRESENTE! a poetry troupe that brings awareness to political prisoners and prisoners of war in the U.S.
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After the London bombings, an NPR commentator asked the question: Is this what the future holds? Will we have to endure this like bad weather?
Bad Weather
Our language comes from Arabic
There¹s a bin-Laden
For every letter of the alphabet
The forecast today
Is Bad Weather
A cluster bomb
in Copley Square
A suicide bomber
At Downtown Crossing
What doesn¹t rain from above
Can¹t be protected from with an umbrella
It¹s going to be a Nuclear Day
Mushrooms exploding in the corners of Everywhere
Lunch appointments completely ruined
A whole life¹s work blown to bits
My parents no longer exist
In Rochester
There¹s a fingernail left
Of a friend from Montana
What we need is
HOMELAND SECURITY
A T-Shirt says
Fighting Terrorism since 1492
Depicting four Native American warriors
Rifles cocked
What goes around
Becomes a tornado
Two-fifty for a coffee and donut
Two-fifty for a gallon of gas
The president grins
With a moustache of oil
Got Democracy
Wasn¹t it Sadaam who took down the towers
The forecast today is Bad Weather
It¹s always easier to believe a lie
- Richard Cambridge
Ten Flowers
This morning I picked ten flowers‹
primroses, pale-yellow and gold‹
for the cream pitcher-vase on the altar.
When I finished praying I said,
In Thy Name and by Thy Flowers, Amen.
I thought to correct it, but God said, No,
Let¹s try flowers instead of power today.
What if, in the place of an angry fist
a bouquet of flowers broke upon a face?
Instead of a bloody lip, the question‹
Who have you been kissing this morning?
What a day could follow from a question like that!
Why get out of bed, or leave the altar?
Do Nothing! Proclaim it Holy!
Let the generals do the fighting!
A child¹s hand will overturn their chessboards.
The scent of primroses is early morning spring rain.
-Richard Cambridge
