Assad Visits Homs

Those who love their own noise are impatient of everything else. ... Our noise, our business, our purposes, and all our fatuous statements about our purposes, our business, and our noise: these are the illusion.

Thomas Merton.

He came to visit today
with cameras firmly fixed
on his perfect
hair. 

He came with his selected throng

to acknowledge their 

devotion

as he surveyed his

demolition.

Those old buildings were such a blight,

rabid rats, full of the noise

of rebellious children,

but now, city leveled, he can see

how beautiful it all will be.

Bright new buildings soon will rise,

and scrape death from the acrid sky; 

and everything will be 

first rate!

....but just out of al Jazeera’s frame

black smoke pours over

Baba Amr;

incinerated hopes;

dark stain.

(27 Nov 2012)

Headline NY Times, 17 Sept. 2016: 

                                    His Grip Secure, Assad Smiles While Syria Burns

The Abyss of the Soul

“The truest solitude is not something outside you, it is an abyss opening up in the center of your own soul.” Thomas Merton

When night rushes in
and tightly presses
my fading eyes
and even the faithful wind
fails,

with breathless prayer
will I call you.

Your strong hand
will catch me as I fall
beyond my failures
beyond the
brutality
of my will,

down to my truest solitude
to the abyss
of the soul.

(9/9/2013)

Psalm 9-11 (dedicated to Fr. Mychal Judge)

I hear your soft voice

In the hushed evening breeze

as gentle wind fills 

these tall, murmuring trees.  

For you're never too far;

your soft breath I can feel.

My soul stirs with faith

that no anger can steal.  

Through the cold, empty night

you fill my dark soul.

Your brilliant light breaks

death's harsh, ancient hold.  

In the morning I'll hear 

your clear voice proclaim

my life you've restored,
bitter tears wiped away.

(7 March 2014)

Survivor

My busy day paused,

gassing up the car,

I waited as the gallons flowed

and clicked to a stop,

and ready to go,

I slowly drove

toward the busy street

when the sudden crush

of limb and leaf,

held me on the edge ­—

wondering

how a dying tree’s 

green embrace

cradled me

in my shattered car,

unscathed.

Day's End

I'll fill this small space,

coarse stone in the stream,

as soft, summer winds

gently shape me,

my rough lines smoothing,

polishing dull skin,

‘til golden and gleaming

I’m clean once again.

(30 June 2011)

Political Poem

I don't want to write political poetry,

but conflict washes over my native land

like a Katrina surge.

A tempest in a teapot

doesn't mean much

compared to the

relentless fury

of the tsunami.

This year's leaves, floating

gently to my lawn 

glowing orange and gold

through the afternoon sun,

signify more than any inept

congressional 

super-committee;

but when I see a policeman, 

a man I want to call 

protector, hero, friend, 

spray orange pain 

on crouching kids;

when protesters become enemies

of the state, and plans to smash

hope are made

on great, glistening tables 

in bank boardrooms 

gleaming

with the tears 

of the foreclosed, 

then must I write political poetry.

I'll lob a simile

into the executive suite, 

I'll make strong the barricades

with my fierce metaphor.

(21 Nov 2011)
*

Политические Поэма

Я не хочу писать политические стихи,

но конфликт моет над моей родиной

как волна Катрина.

Буря в стакане воды

ничего не значит

по сравнению с

неустанной ярости

о цунами.

В этом году листья, плавающие

осторожно, чтобы мой газон

светящиеся оранжевые и золотые

через день солнце,

означает больше, чем любой неумелой

Конгресс

супер-комитета;

но когда я вижу милиционера,

Человек я хочу назвать

защитник, герой, друг,

спрей оранжевый боли

на корточках дети;

, когда протестующие стали врагами

государства, и планы, чтобы разбить

надежда сделаны

на больших, блестящих таблицы

в банковских залах заседаний

блестящий

со слезами

из исключил,

Затем я должен писать политические стихи.

Я уволю сравнение

в Executive Suite,

Я сделаю сильными баррикадами

с моей ожесточенной метафора.
*****************************************

Обратите внимание на мои русские читатели: Я используюGoogle Translate, чтобы сделать эти стихи (и настоящей записки) на русский язык. Хотя я изучал русский язык в колледже, много лет назад, я чувствую, неопределенной, что эти переводы являются удовлетворительными. Не могли бывы выслать мне комментарий и скажите мне, если онихорошо читать на русском языке? Я был бы благодаренпредложения. Спасибо. Стивен Federle