I just met with several law firms in Rio de Janeiro to discuss the Madoff and Air France cases. What a beautiful place to do business! Rio is one of the world's most beautiful cities. However, pick-pockets abound. Of course this is nothing compared to the "white collar pick-pocketing of Bernie Madoff. He ripped-off the world and, if lucky will only get a few years in the clinker, before he dies. Maybe, like Michael Milkin, Bernie will treat his behind bars experience in a constructive way.

Michael Pierce with Great Grandparents

PANAMA'S TROPICAL ABUNDANCE

DARIEN JUNGLE DECIMATED

I wrote this poem, after reflecting upon what it would be like to be a 500 year old tree in Panama's Darien Jungle.

As an environmental lawyer, representing the Embera-Wounaan indigenous tribes, in the Darien, I am extremely concerned about their future. The Embera-Wounaan are a proud, fascinating people. Their culture and rainforest, in Panama's Darien Province, is being decimated at an alarming rate. National Geographic, CNN, and other news media will soon visit Panama. Hopefully they will focus on the Darien and its indigenous tribes (mainly Embera, Wounaan, and Kuna).

There are many stories to be told here. Just as in the Amazon, the Darien Jungle is facing-off against corporate greed, and is losing. A sane and sustainable compromise must be reached, soon.

TROPICAL ABUNDANCE

Sweet oxygen drifts from limbs above
To fuel my soul and heart
I feel its warmth, I wonder how
My wealth may soon depart

As the jungle sings its gentle song
Its melody makes me sigh
Abundant wealth, endangered now
Invites an Indian’s cry

Will you cut me, will you drown me
My soul is longing to know
Or will you save me, will you show me
How I may fully grow

Sawed to pieces or standing tall
Life’s essence versus death
Economic truth approaches
As I take another breath

My cells dividing through roots and shoots
Sprouting branches with breathing leaves
I will barter and bargain my oxygen
To those who truly believe

Trees are golden temples
Endangered by saw’s teeth
Tall verdant green, touching God
Our worth beyond belief

Michael Pierce
July 10, 2008

Knitting Needle and Spitoon Symphony

As I tap through my brain, accessing photo, film, and sounds from my past, short snippets pop-up which deserve some poetic license. Going back 60 years, I can vividly picture my great-grandparents (Ba and Nan McDonald) each sitting in their rocking chairs in Lincoln, Nebraska. They were both in their mid-80s, it was 1948, and they deserved a rest, after their pioneering days as farmers in Sutton, Nebraska.

Ba and Nan didn't say much. I just sat there and was initially bored. But then, my youthful curiosity tuned-in to their memorable concert. Ba, spitting into his spittoon, made a soft cymbal sound, while Nan, with her knitting needles, joined in with a melodic tapping cadence. It was hypnotic. Funny, how our computer brains record and then recall these "golden moments" in our lives.

Ba and Nan and their simple symphony deserve to be remembered. This poem is for them:

Knitting needle and spittoon symphony

Of course I didn't get it
Their music wasn't hip
Spittoon and knitting needles
Their beat, profoundly flip

Old Ba cranked his head
Brown teeth bared, lips apart
Face, wrinkled and taut
Ready to launch his dart
And, I didn't get it

Granny Nan, knitting nearby
Her needles tapping and turning
On a black and orange something
Birthing, creating, life resuming
And, it didn't register

1948, and I was six
Invited to McDonald's concert
Just two old farm hicks
They gave me front row
But, I was bored already

Sky King, please rescue me
From this moribund pair
Hold our caskets! They plea
And listen to our symphony
So I looked and listened

Their chaotic chorus begins
Ba's tobacco dart hits spittoon
Brass resonates off drooling chin
More phlegm flying, more percussion
And, I liked the sound

While Nan's needles tap
A Gene Krupa cadence
Cob-webbing wool on lap
Her swan song so sweet
And, I got the beat

Their family concert still fills me
With the essence of their seed
Honky, hip, hicks exiting
With one last enobling deed
And, I love them for it

Michael Charles Pierce