In the Shades of Shadow Trees

Shadows passing shadows in the shades of shadow trees,
And life is like a vapor, a mostly ghostly shadow show,
And again does the church bell toll for yet another soul
That never really lived but finally died in vacuous pride
After casting aside hope for meaning to reside in shades
That weighed nothing because he was afraid of solidity,
Choosing instead a sickly flaccidity with heart cupidity,
And now the gray coffin is lowered into the black earth,
To the very place that will give rest to all of his worth,
Accumulated from cradle to the grave for such a knave;
But are we any different in our deference to existence?
No, we should know we’ll need some savior some day.

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Better Ways on Brighter Days

I look at the world around me and boldly hold
Onto the broad scope of hope for better ways
On brighter days here and around the world
With love and peace unfurled as one banner
For all the kingdoms and countries of earth
In recognition of the worth of every person
With honor and respect as the perspective
Of every heart in and toward one another
For the other way of war will be no more
With no more score to be kept anywhere
Neither here nor there nor any thought
Of being brought in and bought to feed
Corporation greed that seeds the need
To trade people as mere commodities
For gross gain involving so much pain
With such insane and inhumane pride
In pompous stride with the devil who
Hates ‘n baits all hooks for all crooks
. . .
But no more, I say, as I go to the floor
Upon bended knees to say my prayer
For better ways on brighter days . . .

Chains and Pain (and Pride)

Many chains and so much pain in the world,
And do we contribute our part for our gain?
Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters each one
Under the sun – one family in disharmony –
Surely there is a better way to brighter days
In the saying, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself,’
Instead of braying on about who is straying,
Who’s staying and who’s not welcome at all!
Ultimately, you see, we rise and fall together
Despite our differences, however important;
After all, how really difficult is it to say,
‘I’m not going to shoot you or boot you?’
. . .
Many chains and so much pain in the world,
And do we contribute our part for our gain?

No Romero, Not Here! Not Here!

Dearest Romero, you cannot come here out of fear;
You see, we don’t know you and only a few want to;
You have made your pilgrimage at such a young age,
But all for not for we have bought this wall
As a clarion call that we’re surely not for all,
Even the weak and small like you, O Romero!
Say, can you see the torch held high up into the sky?
Fire once burned there to light the night sky
As a bright beacon of hope for those who cry;
But now we must say ‘good bye’ and just let you die,
For we have no place for your face ‘n no more grace;
O Romero, what are you thinking as you’re blinking?
Skies here are not blue for you,
And your skin is the wrong hue!
From sea to sea shall we be ever so discriminatory?
Dearest Romero, you cannot come here out of fear!
Not here, lad, not here . . . for we are filled with fear!


Note: Romero is both a Spanish and an Italian surname meaning: A person on a religious journey or pilgrimage . . . (also) an herb of rosemary symbolizing remembrance and fidelity.

In Response to ‘Friendly’ Advice

So you ask me what I’m doing, skewing my position
While screwing me over with all your lofty demands,
Wanting me to put money first like a bee with honey,
To ‘get back on my feet’ along the well-beaten path
Trod by Western materialists just like you yourself,
But did it ever occur to you that I’ve
Rejected the imperialist way of life?
What am I doing while gluing my life back together?
Perhaps I’m answering a higher calling
Rather than bawling behind some desk!
Maybe, just maybe, I’ve chosen to take an upper path;
And does it pay more? You do the math and tell me!
Ah, money only reaches so far; there’s a bar in the sky;
And I am willing to say ‘goodbye’ to all of that muck,
And to buck the trend while I bend my neck and knees
Only to the One who has brought me this far already;
You see, crawling or brawling are no longer necessary;
I am a poet with a penchant for love, joy and serenity,
And I do not toy with the lives of others for sickly gain;
That would drive me insane and cause a deal of pain,
But there is One who trains for a strange sort of feat
Completely off of the beaten path of this old world,
And sweetens it with an unusual success all its own;
So thank you for brashly telling me to set some goals,
But goals have already been set, and I didn’t ask you
To bother about my life anyway, so why now the knife?
If you want to be a friend, then be a friend to the end,
But don’t screw with me and tell me to be like you!
I am me, who God created me to be, and I shall be me!

Happy Indigenous Heritage Day

As we rightly remember blessings bestowed
We cannot help but remember what is owed;
Land we now enjoy once belonged to bands
Of people here long before our Euro-throng;

So . . .
I Give
THANKS
But Not For
CROOKS & BANKS

I Am
GRATEFUL
But Not For
The CRUEL & HATEFUL

I Have
GRATITUDE
But Nor For
ATTITUDES & EMPTY PLATITUDES

Yes, we are rightly thankful for the seeds
That we plant ‘n grow to meet our needs,
But we should count the beads of history
And recall the grand mystery we erased,
Leaving only shadowy lines to be traced

Happy Thanksgiving, perhaps, but also . . .
“Happy Indigenous Heritage Day,” I say!



Note: For a succinct chronology of the protests against DAPL (the Dakota Access Pipeline) you may want to read the following article:

http://www.motherjones.com/environment/2016/09/dakota-access-pipeline-protest-timeline-sioux-standing-rock-jill-stein

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Blessed be the Poor

Do you know what it is to beg for bread?
Do you know the dread of not being fed?
Have you ever had to hang your head?
Have you ever felt the need to plead?
And have you ever been misled,
Given stones in place of bread?
It’s not easy and makes you very queasy;
Some people quickly think you’re sleazy!
Oh, but to be turned down with a frown,
Especially after you’ve helped so many,
Giving a twenty when you had plenty –
Or even when you barely had a penny –
It makes you sick, like a kick in the gut!
When you yourself fall into a rut,
You’re mistreated like filthy smut;
Even your temple-church cuts you;
No more wanted; no more needed;
They have nothing to give for you to live!
Tell me, do you know the dread
Of begging for merely bread?
To be in need of even a few small seeds?
. . .
‘Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’