Pure Hope

Ukraine mourns its dead; scores of empty strollers were lined up in the cobbled central square of the city of Lviv on Friday to commemorate the children killed in the country since Russia's invasion.

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“We are not perfectly free until we live in pure hope. For when our hope is pure, it no longer trusts exclusively in human and visible means, nor rests in any visible ends. “ Thomas Merton

Close the gun’s edge

life is sharply

defined.

Clarity is achieved

when you have nothing left

but hope.

That’s when you realize

that your life stands

without any visible

means of

support;

like a high-

wire walker,

you are

pure.

That’s why

you have the freedom

to stand between

the red rage

and the children.

America

Deep thunder shakes this warm July evening
and lightning flashes over the waterfront
filling the clear, starry sky with acrid clouds and glimmering rain
falling to the water as children gaze
in shock and awe,
waiting for the next big one to explode.

False bombardment as celebration:

such fits my nation, founded in genocide and slavery,
this nation baptized in the blood and tears
of Navaho and Cherokee and all the tribes of the American holocaust
a nation that devoured one quarter of its sons
in four short, blood-soaked years; my nation,
a nation of efficient bigots and hungry hypocrites,
giving the world Gettysburg and the Trail of Tears
as models for problem-solving;
a nation unlike any other, not able to live up to its promises
because no other nation dares make such promises.

The bright violence of rockets' red glare lights our sky
like the bold Declaration ignited the world, and thunder
rocked mighty kings from complacent belief in their divine rights,
rocked the people of Europe, thirsting for their own rights
and land and a chance to pursue a little happiness;
yes, rocked even distant Asia, deep in its ancient dream
foolish men joyfully following the distant thunder
to seek the fabled Golden Mountain.

The promise was made and broken and made yet again,
and the anger of betrayal torched the cities of the sixties,
and singed our hearts
and in the redeeming pain of change
made them a little less impure.
Yes, we are imperfect,
but we know our sins
and pay for them over and over again,

and to remind ourselves of the debt yet unsatisfied,
every summer we celebrate in the only way fitting for such a nation;
In the starry sky fiercely glowing with liberty -
in the transcendent thunder
of the Promise.

(4 July 2011)

The Connecticut Effect

devastating velocity,
blood thirsty, fresh death-
dealing NRA
lies fly super-
sonic flesh thud-
ing ragged rounds
slamming into
stunned souls,
dreams
die.

(26 Feb 2013)

View from Sutro

"It is God’s love that speaks to me in the birds and streams but also behind the clamor of the city." Thomas Merton

Seen from golden heights

the tangled city

squares up.

Straight streets,

rigid veins

spurt quicksilver

past towers

of fog.

It throbs.

Hearts, minds,

sing passion

joy, lust,  

boredom.

A dying man

clinging to desperate sheets,

passing;

An infant crying

drawing raw air,

beginning.

It’s alive,

greater

than its sum.

See how it beats

in the cool Pacific sun?

Urban Square

Wayne Thiebaud, Urban Square, 1980, Oil on canvas, Oakland Museum

rise

canyons

steel over streets

vaulting rivers fly

to the hard, blue sky

sharper than

ink, than

bright city

lights.

(22 Oct. 2013)

In the Cold

In the cold

there's no room

for old fears; tears

that freeze on your

cheeks are

useless.

Lying under narrow eves

on porch or sidewalk grate

waiting for sleep 

or death

to ease your pain, 

you cannot remember

how you got this way;

for thought, like water, 

congeals to solid rock,

and you can't 

even pray.

(12 Dec 2012)

*******

Author's Note: Estimates of the numbers of homeless in the US today range from 200,000 to 500,000, many of whom are unsheltered children.  This is a national disgrace.  Update 3/2017: President Trump's new budget inhumanely slashes poverty programs while increasing military spending.  He thinks this will make us more safe.


**********


В холодное


В холодное
здесь нет места
за старые страхи, слезы
что мораторий на ваш
щеки
бесполезно.

Лежа под узким кануны
на крыльце или тротуаре решетку
ожидания для сна
или смерть
чтобы облегчить вашу боль,

Вы не можете вспомнить
как вы получили таким образом;

для размышлений, как вода,
застывает в твердые породы,
и вы не можете
даже молиться.

***

Автор отмечает,
Оценки числа бездомных в диапазоне сегодня США от200000 до 500000, многие из которых являютсянезащищенных детей. Это национальный позор.

The 1%

blaring train

declaring right-

of-way,

elephantine, cyclopean, 

crushing our lives

with money,

bloody truth

strangling the sighs 

of the repossessed  

as wall street swells

with the cries of

the dispossessed.

Transition

The generals line-up, war-plans

in withered hands, ready to strike

the children.

But do not fear this transition!

For above the black clouds, know that He lingers,

Ready to strike!

Then will the blind see and the deaf hear.

Then will we leap for joy

As the mute break forth

In song!

Isaiah 35: 1-6A - 10.

(10 Dec 2016)

The Homecoming

When you were in Vietnam

we got your letters, two or three at once

and then the whole house buzzed like a nest

of honey drunk bees as we poured over

your every word.

We kids imagined you, strong, tough,

blazing with righteous American fury

cutting down those dirty commies,

but Mom and Dad

read each letter more slowly

glancing at each other

with darker looks.

Then one day we got the recording you made,

tiny plastic reels, shiny brown tape wound

in fragile loops; your voice!

just like you were in the room, speaking

re-assuring, everyday chat about R&R

and shopping in Bangkok. Finally,

the tape nearly spent, you said that

you were coming home soon.

And one bright July morning

you came home! Your hat was rakishly tilted,

a Lucky cigarette carelessly drooping

from the corner of your grinning mouth,

all paratrooper swagger, gold braid running

through your buttoned shoulder loops,

colored ribbons and medals all over your chest.

As you walked through the door

I stood aside, awestruck, shy.

You sat like a visitor in your own home

and we opened the packages you brought for us,

Christmas in July, as one by one we held

our Asian wonders, and watched

as Mom held your hand and

Dad searched your eyes.

But you were tired, so upstairs in my room

you took a midday nap, and when Mom told me

to wake you up for supper, I nudged your shoulder

and you bolted,

breathless,

down the steps,

into the quiet street

and stood at tense attention,

(the neighbors all gawking),

as you waved your M-16

made of air

and memory,

and waited

for the morters

to fall

and kill us all.

Then the light returned to your eyes.

Slowly you walked back to the house

and gently took me by my shoulders

and told me to never,

never

touch you when you were asleep,

and I never asked you why.

(11/11/2010)

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)

Colorado

rushing, wildly running

through narrowing gorge,

plunging ever away

from what it was –

calm pond

silent spring slipping

time’s bond --

descending cliffs

flowing, always flowing

gathering all the waters of the west

to become the Colorodo –

carver of canyons,

life giver, death dealer

river of earth.

(8 October 2015)

The Road Waits

The road waits,
but I’m not ready.

I pause, cradled by soft leather
In this silent room,
listening to morning’s
soft breath stirring
the glimmering summer leaves,

as the perched bird
gazes through my open window
into my wondering eyes
and waits.

But this is a good morning to wait.

Look how the extravagant grass waves,
and truant weeds luxuriate along the fence,
while in the small central garden
red flowers gather like
warm, slumbering children
under the wide,
spreading vine!

But still the road waits.

I’ve seen
the glistening pavements
slide under my rolling wheels,
the river to my right,
green Ohio rising
into northern forests,
and misty Kentucky
calling to me
across the wide,
glittering waters.

The road goes on,
and I cannot
wait.

(16 March 2011)