This day of remembrance,
Year Two-Thousand-Twenty,
I wonder if Dr. King knew where we would be?
Would he have imagined a past black president?
The rise of fascism?
Renewed imperialism?
And neo-nazis?
Would he have imagined innocents in cages,
At our nation’s borders?
The threat of another new war?
Would he have imagined? …
I am sure he could have imagined,
But he also would imagine the struggle,
To rise up against hatred and bigotry,
To aim for the “beloved community”
He knew was perpetually in the distance,
It was always a dream,
A dream you can’t quite touch,
But a dream you can’t take away,
With bullets and bombs,
A dream can be reimagined, shared, Reinvigorated,
A dream you can keep dreaming,
If you have the will,
A dream is like a virus,
Inspiring it can spread, and spread,
And take hold of the system,
If not now, then when?
Our dream was his dream,
A dream reimagined,
A dream for our time,
A dream when black lives matter, unquestioned, undoubted,
A dream when immigrants, refugees are free,
And find promised land in the arms of their brethren,
A dream when brutality is not from our law enforced protectors,
A dream when “-isms” are not blind,
And don’t exist at all,
A dream when new divisions are not erected to substitute the old,
A dream we all feel the need to dream;
dream on.
Tag: Peace
(Here In) Solitude
Solitude,
I sit alone blankets covering legs
As I prepare for night’s rest,
And still my tongue is restless,
Unworn from speech,
My mouth is an empty cavern capable,
But speechless,
Instead it is my brain,
The vessel that has been tasked with laborious burdens,
My mind that has tumbled and wrestled with the day,
And yet,
At the day’s end,
It is my mind that longs for the comfort of a used mouth,
For the melodic hum of vocal cords,
But yet there is very little of this song here,
The mind is alone,
With no accompanying music,
The mouth stays in silence,
But for the occasional chewing on idle tongue,
All are in individual silos of solitude,
As am I,
In my bottom bunk,
In an almost empty room for 10,
Thus begins, and begets,
Life of the minister in making,
Here in
Solitude.
Spiritual Knot
I need the tools,
The skills,
To untangle the spiritual knot,
That gets tangled,
Each time an atrocity comes to be,
Each time evil shows it’s face,
Teeth bared
This is why I am on this path,
To gain and use the learned,
For more than just my own
Drift Away (a reverse poem)
Drift away,
You find you will
wake,
Let the sand ground you,
way out
let the waves rock you,
May the sun kiss you,
the moon your eyes,
The stars your lips
The stars your lips,
the moon your eyes,
May the sun kiss you,
let the waves rock you
way out,
Let the sand ground you,
Wake,
You find you will
Drift away
The Illustrator
You, illustrator,
Draw a world where others care,
Where pain shouldn’t be,
You tend to society,
Make a place I want to be
Guarding the Sanctuary
Heart heavy as hallowed space is again desecrated,
Spilling blood at worship,
Taking life before it’s due,
To feed the hate machine
–The machine churning out young angry men,
To do its bidding,
Placing blame for economic shame,
Hardships, losses
On those who have no input,
No contribution to another’s plight,
But hate blurs
And conspiracies abound,
To feed, feed, feed, the machine,
For she is hungry,
And hate only breeds more hate,
And soon more will be shed,
Until the machine is brought to heel,
But it’s inner workings are a maze,
Of white supremacy, antisemitism, islamophobia, vengeance seeking,
All vying to make their bullet marks,
Where heads are bowed and guard is down,
Where peaceable minds are taken advantage of,
And turning the cheek is being abused,
Our sanctuaries are fortresses now,
Guarding from unknown,
as yet to be hostilities,
We come to worship peacefully,
May it be in peace;
And for those lives lost,
may they be at peace.
She of Letters 