Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave
and eats a bread it does not harvest.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.
Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking
Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.
Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years
and whose strongmen are yet in the cradle.
Pity the nation divided into fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation.
Gibran, the Garden of the Prophet
I wonder if you had been frightened staring down the barrel of a dark tunnel
Now and again, I sneak a peak to where you have gone
I grance and wonder
had the bleak scope made an impact
Did you understand where you stood
had those faint and painful smiles been a matter of what we have always done?
Lying there with your god and your rosaries had there been relief or repentence?
Tunnels have a way of squeezing out the memories
Memories, so long over looked.
In the end of your travels could you stop worrying about that which has not happened yet?
I thought like you…I had been raised to
Not once did the light at the end of the tunnel open up to anything new
Glancing up and around, and threw, as you did, could there ever be all that you wanted to do
these were the days
a walk through the park to find school
where you did not look like me and that was cool
when a cross is what you wore
how being poor meant you want…needed…more
hatred was a myth and true love was not a choice of sides
living in a rural community came with a deep sense of pride
Nixon had been a joke
our leaders were encourage to enhance hope
these were the days where my peers had a right to be wrong
when constriction left quickly but humbly asked to belong
all eyes were open to all colors
there were three channels and nothing on
these were the days when information did not make me cry
where believing had not left me wondering a collective why
when violence had not been given a side
The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod— Myself—for scarcely settled— The Phoebes have begun— And then—it’s time to strike my Tent— And open House—again— It’s mostly, interruptions— My Summer—is despoiled— Because there was a Winter—once— And al the Cattle—starved— And so there was a Deluge— And swept the World away— But Ararat’s a Legend—now— And no one credits Noah—
here we are again
at the dark edges of an enchanted pond beauty from fury fury from beauty frost on a rose sun showers freckles on a dying hand wild horses in the depths of thicket ivy on a formidable trail looking for truth amongst the mystery here we go again, playing the card game to life fighting nature as if it were a foe living in the darkness where light is the only gully to go we are our only foe