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.
Up and expand your heart and demand fresh experience;
Turn away from the spurious, embrace the glorious
In variance with the world around you and you are bound
To reach new heights far above the highest flying kites!
And be done with the trouble of overly safe bubbles,
But instead move forward toward numinous golden goals!
Travel from pole to pole, see this earth, place of your birth!
You only have so much time and the clock ever chimes . . .
So, up and expand your heart, demanding new starts
Before you grow old ‘n weary and your days long ‘n dreary
You walk tall in the sanctuary and talk of sanctimony;
You raise your hands and praise the heavens in glory,
Sure of your own wisdom, vision and charisma so fine,
But you balk at all authority, at the age of the sage,
Who’d guide and direct, lead and protect you from folly;
Of course, in your youth you already know the truth,
Spirit-filled as you are, so of course you bar any advice
Twice given, resorting to devices devised so concisely
In your own misguided heart, never taking part in start
Of disciplined learning, churning instead in your soul
With false enthusiasm, letting flow cutting sarcasm,
Shaming the ones who love you with love from above,
Dishonoring the honorable with vile bile of the tongue;
And do you expect God to bless and caress you in this?
And imagine yourself an angel in such spiritual famine?
You have an awful lot to learn and the lessons’ll burn!
Your joy just grows and it shows;
It’s like a whiplash of happiness,
No gaseous flashiness in an uptown
Explosion of giddiness as you drown
In laughter at the coming hereafter;
And youth is renewed when viewed
From behind ~ how kind ~ so smile
One mile wide ~ don’t hide or chide;
You’ve got the right dress to press
On to success and bless yourself
As the world goes to hell
And the bell tolls twelve
As you sell your mockery
For six pence as genuine gleefulness;
Yeah, take it out on the town, girl
And unfurl your flag while you hurl
Your skin-sag bag to the north wind
You scurry around in a dark maze in a thick haze,
Not knowing where you’ve been, what you’ve seen,
And blind as a bat as you wind your way, confined
To an unkind world within the World into which
You’ve been hurled, and so now you’re curled up
Behind dæmonic brick and mortar, defined by what
You cannot see or hear, but Someone wants to steer
Your course by force of Love, and She can be trusted;
But you’ve lusted after liberty to stay in the maze
And make your own way, though there is no way out
On your own, but there are many steady hands ready
To help you, including mine as a sign of affection;
Upon reflection you should see the Spirit wants you
To be free, and so do we… So why do you out shout
So many who care and would help bear your burden?
You are young, your life not yet sung by the stars;
Will you simply bear your scars, running after fools,
Who drool for excitement, strident in advisement
Of what they do not know? They show their own folly;
Ah! If only you could understand that the old and
Wise are not here to reprimand or demand or even
To command, but merely plead to lead you out of the
Stark dark of the maze of thick haze into better ways.
No, I am not old and cold and stale,
But I am not young, my life just begun;
Age is creeping in, yet I’m no sage,
Just one man with heart broken into
Too many parts to piece back together,
But not for lack of trying with crying;
Too much has come-n-gone, some good,
Much not, and I’ve sought redemption,
Sanctification and glorification, too,
But I’m left in mortification of life
So rife with pain with no gain, and I
Wonder if I’m going insane; yet there
Is also some joy in more than mere toys;
Real life peels back layer after layer
And I begin to find my true self without
Any skew of reality and hope God will
Yet renew this tarnished man, who once
Was varnished in youth but shy of sooth;
I hope upon hope one day to find my way
To the Valley of Peace for new lease
On life; to right some of the wrongs
That haunt me day and night in plight
Of aging while yet not old and cold.
My life is mid-stream. Can I reach back to reclaim something good and worthwhile before heading on to the other shore? Or is there more where I am that I cannot see to be grasped and enjoyed in maturity with the surety of heavenly days and carefree ways? Ah! Spirit of Life, help me to see and to be all that I can be as an unyoung yet not old man!
Too young to see such horror; are we ever old enough?
Too young to sing funeral dirge, of death to be told;
Too young to bring flowers to dress the coffin cold;
Too young to ring the funeral bell for Reaper’s hold.
Too young to wing your way to Mors for life to mould;
Too young to kneel by dying frame, expected to be bold
Beyond your years, to shed no tears lest someone scold.
And who will hold you right tight against such fright
As night rolls on till beam of light in Sol’s stream?
Too young to withhold free scream at such fright-sight;
Too young to be old enough not to care at death bare.
Too young . . . too young.
Your life has just begun.
Note: Dedicate to my two children, who have seen too much too young