Freedom’s fallen to her knees And she’s got no strength to stand When the voices of a nation Fall like salt upon the sand Muted by a call of hatred Ringing all across the land All her screams for gentle mercy Stifled by a tyrant hand Look around you, there are signs In the flower and the tree in the river and the sky For an eye that wants to see Come together, join as one Ocean of humanity Here and now, remove the shackles Here and now: set Freedom free
You’re angry at them all, and now It feels like something deep within has died, How could they do this to you After all you do for them and all you’ve tried. “Forgive, so God forgives you,” is The chant repeated, and you’ve tried a lot, But then you look at people And reduce them to the gadgets that you’ve got: It’s easy when a smartphone just Goes dumb, you can exchange it for another, But you can’t find replacements for A parent, child, a sister or a brother. You feel the world against you Like a hammer coming down upon a nail And then they say they’re sorry, but You’re tired of the way they always fail. Now all your love has withered in The desert of your anger, you decide There’s nothing left to give up but The hardest thing to give up is your pride. So hear the Friday caller’s call To heed the words that drift upon his breath And turn your eye upon yourself And beg forgiveness now before your death. Till there begins to swell a wave Of Mercy from the fountain whence it springs A wave that rolls toward the shores Of faith with all the mercy Mercy brings. It fills you with abilities You thought were well beyond you all this time: It’s easy to forgive when you Have been forgiven any fault or crime. Good deeds and sweet forgiveness wipe Bad deeds and their effects away for good, It’s what the […]
It was a massive golden beast, as awesome in its beauty as its quiet ferocity. “But how did it get there,” you ask. It happened one cold morning last winter. I had just gotten ready for work and was stepping out of my room on the second floor when I spied my six-year-old son by the stairs. He was looking down at nothing in particular. He didn’t look too happy. “What’s the matter, man?” The question elicited no change in expression, just a dull “Nothing.” Well, I knew that was untrue. You see, like any father worth his uniodized sodium chloride, I know my son. I suspected it had something to do with him realizing he had fallen asleep the night before wearing his Thomas the Train pajama pants without matching Thomas the Train pajama shirt, rather a plain old “soft” shirt – his preferred term for a white tee. Maybe it was something else. But I was faced with two options – to either engage him and let him talk his problem out, or to supplant his current preoccupation with another. I chose the latter without hesitation. I ran my hand over his head and invited him to hold it as we made our way down the stairs. He let his left hand slide on the bannister as I let my right shoulder graze the wall, each of us contributing our shuffle to the silent melodies of morning time. Our stairs bifurcate at a mid-level landing, one flight goes to the right and ends in the foyer, the other goes left and […]
The words are formed and primed to do their dance Upon the bones of honor in disgrace You’ve strung your bow of tongue, awaiting chance To send that verbal arrow nocked in place. But then, just as you are about to fire There falls a slowing hand upon your bow Eliding tension for a reason higher Than all the reasons you could ever know. The arrow is dismantled word by word, Replaced by disposition quite reversed: An arsenal of patience undeterred By thoughts seducing you to be your worst. It is an act of courage to withhold A poisoned arrow, be it cast in gold.
Today: just a day on the prairie bounding leaping suddenly silently wary slow down amble on by the brown stroke of dawn
Now even as we mourn the loss Of famous faces for the good They heaped upon the world they touched As only people like them could, We can’t forget the faces that Were too horrific for the news Because they bear the marks of death Witnessing inconvenient truths. Let’s not forget the faces of The elders who we push aside That WE may live in peace and comfort In the days before THEY died. Let’s not forget the faces lost Without a home to call their own In games of war where bombs are tossed By oh-not-so-mistaken drone. And if we cannot see these faces We must close our eyes to see For that is how the blind are blessed In matters of a mind that’s free.