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)

Impasse

I listen for you to speak,
to look me in the eye
and simply tell me what
it is that you want
me to do,

but you’re silent.

You’re waiting for me
to speak, to utter
my love, sing
my song to
you.

We are at an impasse

when cold air fills
my hungry lungs,

and exhaling at last
I hear your song
in my fleeting
breath!


(22 Nov 2012)

May 4, 1970

Morning was already warm, the sun beat
my sweating brow as I walked to the Oval,
past green Jeeps filled with tense soldiers,
past the detritus of last night’s battle:
torn flyers, shattered glass,
spent tear-gas canisters still reeking,
past garish, red ON STRIKE! posters,
to begin another chaotic day.

Because ugly war raged in Vietnam,
sharp tension hung over Columbus,
a grey, stinking haze imposed
on this brilliant
spring day,

So we lined up; the concept was simple.
student marshals, green armbands as our shields,
stood between swearing students
and nervous guardsmen,
whose black bayonets
wavered mere inches from our necks.
The idea was easy; being students,
other students
would respect
our vulnerability;
and not being demonstrators,
the guardsmen would
respect our lives.

It worked fairly well
until a rumor
exploded
about death
at Kent State.

Angry, bold, silent,
sweeping aside all respect,
they pushed us back,
into the bristling line of steel.
I looked behind me
and saw rifles lowered
to shoulder level,
aimed right through me,
and hearing the smooth, deadly glide
of bolt into waiting chamber,
I dove to the ground
and joined the fleeing, terrified
rush of children.

That evening, safe in my parents’ home,
far from the deserted campus,
I watched the news with my father.
I saw hard-hatted construction workers
angrily beating students, just like me,
on the bloody streets of New York,

and muttering about getting what they deserved,
my dad looked at me,
and saw my
tears.

Suddenly silent
he turned off
the TV.

Another Exorcist

John said to him, “Master, we saw someone who is not one of us driving out devils in your name, and because he was not one of us we tried to stop him.” But Jesus said, “You must not stop him; no one who works a miracle in my name could soon afterwards speak evil of me.”  Mark 9:38-39

We saw him
down the road, exhorting,
calling Our Father
to cast out crazy Satan,
and for reference
he gave your name!

We told him to stop.

He was not
authorized,
did not have the proper
credentials

but he replied that
a spirit greater
than we twelve
guided his arms
as he waved
the devil away,

so he refused!

Perplexed, we came to you,
indignantly demanded that you
intercede, cast this upstart
heretic into the muddy ditch
from whence
he undoubtedly arose.

But again you surprise!

“Do not try to stop him,” you said.

And here’s a lesson:

Remember that neither we
nor our apostolic descendants
must ever think that you
ever gave us exclusive rights
to heaven.

We’ll try to remember.