the Garden of the Prophet

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. 
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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

Lights at the end of the Tunnel

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

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

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Winters are so Short by Emily Dickinson

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 go again

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