I’ve revised and reworked an earlier piece written in 2017 as a response to the terrorism of Hamas and the war Israel has declared. It seems to me that this slaughter by Hamas and the retaliation that Israel is now forced to take cannot be what any God wants. Surely, it is not what the Palestinian people or the people of Israel want either.
The blood of children
falls as rain
on Holy ground.
The blood of their parents
chasing after
as if to save it,
stopping it
from concreating the land
to evil born of old hatred
as the world,
emptied of all care,
watches.
No uprisings.
No shouting in the streets
as this blood rain of innocents falls,
flooding the silent world
as nations watch,
hands bloodied
in pretense of helplessness
before turning their backs.
The seven descend.
Each with wings spread
enough to fill a house.
Shalom upon their tongues.
Throughout the compass points
they search to find
all the gnawed bones,
the muscles and sinew,
the heart and entrails
torn with teeth of hate.
And once the seven
gather all the tiny bits,
With flaming swords
used as needles,
they try to stitch
all humanity’s bloody bits
into one thing well knit.
Neither their swords,
nor spirit of their breath
have the power to seal
the meat and sinew to bone.
And then they know--
those who showed no mercy
would be given none.
Their heads hang--
Inshallah upon their lips
as they ascend.
Their flaming eyes
weeping tears of fire
as they see the red rider
striding across the land.
It is then the seven know
humanity’s avarice and hate
had broken the fourth seal.
Maa shaa’Allah a whisper of smoke
within their throats.
From the seven sets of fiery eyes,
their tears of fire
stream Retzon ha-el
across the night sky.
I tear the trailing ivy
From the trunk of the crepe myrtle tree,
A routine autumnal yard task,
Look up to a partly cloudy Texas sky,
Think of madmen and bombs,
A madman and eleven shot dead
As they prayed on Shabbat—
No words, no words come
Even the birds fall silent.
I could rake these stones.
Free these tiny weeds
which my feeble fingers fumble to grab
and tweeze out.
Yes, with a rake,
I could disturb the harmony
of stones, free the weeds—
But no.
I have had enough of stones.
I’ve enough of their weight
placed upon me.
I’ve carried the tonnage of stone
from place to place,
lived under it,
barely breathing through years,
lived decades encased within a sarcophagus
of other’s demands and expectations,
all shattered now in lovely shards
left in the distance behind me.
No, I will leave these stones undisturbed.
They will not take up my time.
There are other ways to weed,
and should the weeds take the stones,
there is beauty to be found in the wildness of weeds.
(Photo by Nicole Hester/The Tennessean via AP) courtesy of Journalrecord.com
April,
spring,
green,
a time of renewal,
life begins, grows,
days warm,
April, the month of poetry,
inspiration to be found
watching nature as she yawns,
stretches, rubs the winter’s sleep
from eyes closed against the cold—
Then why am I cold still
this April morning
as i sit
and sip
coffee
this fine sun warmed
April morning—
It is—
The three children of Covenant school,
The nineteen children of Robb Elementary,
The children,
The children—
All the children who knew terror
in the final moments of life.
All the children who live
now knowing the horror
of seeing classmates, bloodied, dead and dying
on the floor of a classroom.
This warm sun heralds spring’s return,
life’s renewal, the earth’s promise,
yet I can find no warmth.
It is the time
of grey skies
and dead brown grass
along the roadsides.
The time when the trees
are seen shivering,
their limbs quivering in their nakedness.
When even many of the evergreens drip down
brown, bloodied from the lethal knife wounds
of a sharpened frenzied freeze
as they sag into their deaths.
Yes, it is that time of year
when I yearn
for the green of spring,
for limbs to wrap myself within,
for a renewal of promises
I once longed to make.
The time of year
when I empty forty years
of myself.
As if you erupted from an eternal spring, an immortal thing, I gave you away when last I prayed here at Chimayo. When kneeling I scooped the healing dirt as I spoke silent prayers of thanks for my heart bravely facing shocks of resuscitation after years spent barely beating in stuttering grief.
Upon return today, I kneel to scoop the healing dirt, asking in silent prayer a blessing of forgiveness for giving you away too easily— thus, killing you, bleeding you of all hope, beyond resurrection, beyond resuscitation.
In the dirt of Chimayo, this healing earth, from this place of faith, sifted through my hands, I bury you, a mortal thing, I gave away too easily to an undeserving faith, in this dirt of Chimayo.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 