Guns killed nineteen children
And the incumbent governor
Barely blinked
Aside from thoughts and prayers
Nothing’s been done since ten souls
Perished in Buffalo where
An 18-year-old went gunning for
Black people with hate in his heart
The devil danced
In Orlando and Sandy Hook,
Las Vegas and Charleston,
Columbine and Paducah,
Without blinking
Different faces
Different names
But the devil doesn’t care
And the gun cult extends a hand
For yet another dance.
A dream:
I stood in a field
Surrounded by children.
One asked,
Will you mentor me?
I hemmed and hawed
Scratched my head,
Then, yes.
But know I don’t take this lightly.
We drove to a school
Children in plaid skirts and narrow ties
Crowded near.
This is my mentor,
The child said.
She took my hand and we walked
Through archways,
Across sports fields.
We sat at narrow desks.
I thought to ask her name.
Didn’t you know already?
It’s your name, too.
A cat wound our way
Demanded a petting.
The girl smiled.
I’ve named her after us.
My small collection of poetry books includes one by the incredible Billy Collins. Titled, Sailing Alone Around the Room, this book is a treasure. There are so many terrific poems in this book, but I’ll share just one this evening.
How perfectly Mr. Collins expresses my fascination with the man in the moon.
Peace, people.
April is National Poetry Month, so I thought perhaps I’d share some of my favorite poems over the next few weeks.
Today’s poem is Wild Geese from the wonderful Mary Oliver. I get chills every time I read it.
Peace, people.
That first touch, first kiss
First I love you
Still exist
Somewhere in the archives
Of my soul.
And surely that was magic
Just as the weight of a
Newborn baby in my arms
Is magic.
And sometimes I think
To myself, nobody else,
But you, I suppose
That it’d be a real shame
If all my magic has played out,
Gone to someone younger;
Someone who won’t realize what was afoot
Until wrinkles line their face and
Maybe then it’s too late.
But I tell myself, and you,
That is, those of you who understand,
Our days of magic are now
In the sunsets and warm embraces
Of a gentle love with whom
We’ve grown old.
Have you seen, though, the video of the Ukrainian woman?
The one who confronts a Russian solder?
She tells him to put flower seeds,
Sunflower seeds, to be specific,
In his pockets so when he dies
On Ukrainian soil
Some good will be left
Behind. And,
So his comrades will know
Where he fell.
Peace, people. Please.
Yesterday. Oh man.
Words meant something.
I heard heroin,
I heard I’m here for you.
He didn’t know her,
But paid for her food
As she wrestled with
Demons.
Sat and offered something…
Hope? Maybe.
Comfort? Surely.
All I could offer
Were tears,
And those I cried
At home.
Peace, people.
James Taylor knew, didn’t he, the pain of
Thinking he’d have one more chance
To hold a hand
To say the words and hear theirs in return
To savor their embrace
Only to be denied these comforts
Forever.
Oh, I always thought that I’d see them
One more time again.
A million emotions
Mask grief:
Anger and madness
Contrition and control
Exhaustion and endurance
Helplessness and hopelessness
Too many to name. So much to bear.
The hurt reaches into each pore,
Slender branches poking and prodding
Taking over until the misery spills out faster
Than we can process it.
And that is why we
Weep.
You always think you have another day,
Another moment to say I love you,
To hold the hand that
Needs holding,
To sing one
Last song.
But really, all you have is now.
And just like that, now
Has also slipped
away.
Peace, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 