For The Beauty of Tomorrow

I hope all of you have enjoyed this summer as much as the mosquitoes in my general area have. In a lazy moment of my morning, I stumbled across this small poem scribbled onto a blank page on someone's planner book. The poem was accompanied by a small army of disproportionately shaped cartoon faces and gas masks. As far as I can tell, the art has little or no connection whatsoever.

 For the Beauty of Tomorrow:

For the beauty of tomorrow,
As varied as a mystery it may be,
I will exchange my fear for sorrow,
and trust that God will part my sea.

I will weep, yes gripped by grieving,
for the things we refused to see-
I will mourn what we did not bury-
I will cut the dead weight free.

I will shed my tears at midnight,
not all for the gloom or pain,
but with faith will I accept the twighlight,
as it descends on my darkling plain.

For I believe in dawns and daybreaks,
and in the One who dries my eyes,
Yes, I shall watch the ebony horizon,
my heart leaping for hints of morning skies. 

Give it Up

Here is a poem, or a song, depending on how you look at it. (Squinting with one eye is recommended.)

Give it up, give it back,
return the light to the grocery rack;
now is not the time to keep it all.

The door was open; now it's shut,
you seem to stuck in the same old rut,
wondering why you're never through.
It's time to pull up the crusty tent pegs,
knock the rust from off your hood.
Now's the time to up and wander;
but one day you'll settle down for good.

Just because you have to leave now,
doesn't mean this was not your home.
You'll find this door open and waiting,
when you pass through Jordan's gloom.

I know it hurts if just a little,
to feel the waking wind of dawn,
I know there's a loss, if still a riddle,
to grow and learn and find it gone.

But walk the road and home will be waiting:
desire planted during a mortal phase,
eternal innocence, eternal wonder;
the light of life on a child's face.

The Dawn Shall Come

Just a quick blog post. This one is a poem dedicated to history, in general. Found originally written on cured banana skins nailed to voting booths in Honduras.

The Dawn Shall Come

Take heart, weary watchers;
the dawn will rise through the rain,
perhaps on the bleak slopes of winter,
or on the white fields tossing with grain.

Have strength, little guardian;
the house was not built in vain-
whether divided in rubble or high on a rock-
the sun shall shine on it again.

Find courage, prophets of ruin,
your cowardice is not all to blame;
the wheels of God turn slowly,
but they will raise up the sun once again.


Aye, we stagger on a heady drought,
The tears of Lord mixed with the blood of his saints,
what precious wrath we drink so fast,
draining the cup until we reel and faint.

How cheaply we sell what others have bought;
how quick we are to scorn the past,
we sacrifice that which is not ours to give-
we discard the bronze and display the cast.

If only our treasure not tarnish or rot,
if only our idols could wake up and live-
the house we defend not totter and rend-
If only we had stayed with the One who forgives.


Oh, what songs the wind shall sing-
through this massive eagle's bones!
Oh, what silly pointless things
will be figured from our stones!

Would that this world not stumble towards midnight,
would that these rocks cry out for us all;
if only we'd cherish our last bit of sunlight;
and see that our pillars topple and fall,

But those whom He punishes I know that he loves,
Just as our hearts break and then mend,
and when we beg for his blood to rain from above,
I know that the dawn shall come back again.

A Call to Cleaner Airs: a poem

A Call for Cleaner Air:

Can the gulls see the air?
Can they taste their element, can they perceive what man cannot?
Do they skirt the smoggy winds, turn back their wings from polluted things;
decadence, decay and rot?

Do they in their haunting cries,
report and beckon, review or surmise,
what path through the air is purest, or the cleanest of the lot?

And we, who stand too heavy to fly-
watching them wheel in their gaseous sky,
can we hearken to their instructive cries,
and find what the Ancients sought?

Dare we on our dusty pyramids,
reach desperately from our peaks of thought,
and try to grasp the cleaner air; bind it as a selling fare,
to be parceled, weighed and bought?

Will eyes watering from smoky streets open in surprise,
if they see the untainted goods we pulled down from the skies?
Will hands long numbed for a heartless thing
stretch to receive the caresses they bring,
and feel at last with ecstasy, the air that on free things fly?

Can we meet a sickened soul, hear his rattling, damaged breath,
and with the gift of our cleaner air, restore his heart to health?
Can we blow the smoke away, from the mirrored room of our world,
and stretch out at last a snapping flag, a message bold, unfurled?

I do not know.
Maybe the gulls see nothing, perhaps only through survival they fly,
perhaps the cleaner air is an illusion, a fairy tale, a lie...
Come with me, let us venture, let us cure the world with the sky;
we have only one way of knowing for sure, and that way is to try.

Sincere apologies, and some haikus

My goodly readers: all of you have my deepest apologies. My life has been somewhat-more-consuming than I usual, and I confess that my blog has not been highest in my priorities. Whether or not this will be the last confession and the last break from my weekly posts, I do not deign to declare.

I have just finished a rather absorbing book called 'A Song For Nagasaki', which I recommend to all who have the time for such jewels. The book clearly demonstrates what makes humanity great; and what can equally bring it down. Anyone, regardless of nationality, should take some time to read and reflect on this impressive work. But back to the second half of the title.

For those of you who have not heard of the suffering of the people known to the world as Yazidis, I suggest you utilize our ever-resourceful internet to learn more about their courage. And for those of you who already know about them, several of the following poems are dedicated to them.


A girl with a child;
On the news, from far away,
she looked like my friend.

Banners fall and rise,
sometimes black as a dark night;
raging against the sky.

Men scurry like ants,
ruthless with hate and weapons;
they seem small to us.

In summer fear spread,
In autumn courage fought back,
How will winter fare?

Jewels

If all the tears of yesteryear lined up to be wiped away,
They'd flood the earth and salt the ground and turn our sunshine grey.
But rather than build higher barns each year, to store our tears away,
we throw them up for God to bear, and wait for what he'll say.
Yes, each wet-streaked tiny handful, we offer up each day,
He takes from us, and keeps for us, in Jerusalem far away.

In some obscure sense of things, I don't think they shall ever fade;
but every tear shall be crystallized, kept on velvet, kept with jade,
placed on altars, revered, displayed-
And the saints will stride, like Solomon, with these jewels, all arrayed.

Every little child's cheek that feels a slipping tear,
shall feel the touch of he who holds his servant's blood most dear,
so know that he comes to wipe that tear, take it- store it away,
So that when gone are pain and fear, we'll find these jewels saved.

A poem for all the watchful eagles

Just this afternoon, I was walking down a somewhat secluded mountain slope, when a military plane flew over my position and discharged an air drop. I at first was somewhat hesitant to investigate the package as I may well have arguably strayed past the decaying fences that mark the limits of Area 51, but as no one, terrestrial or extra, approached the delivery, I finally decided it must be for me and went to investigate. I was not disappointed. The following 'poem', (so to speak) I arranged in no particular order from a series of telegraphs inside the air-drop. Whatever their meanings are, or why they were delivered especially to me, may remain a mystery for quite some time.


For all that is bright and beautiful,
for all things sane and wise,
for all who and kind and merciful,
let us clear for them our skies;
We can bring down wrath and fire,
we can sling down roars and smoke,
we can drop them food and blankets-
but can we give them hope?

We soar on celestial azure heights-
blessed to be free by God above,
we watch the world with an eagle's eye,
we descend down like a dove;
we claim the fortunes of the stars:
Fifty, dreams come true,
we plough the nations for fertile wars,
and spread our fearless tune.

From lofty, pristine eagle's view, we watch the world unfold:
fire, fear, ambition; strife,
we drop a crate, or take a life,
'till the smoke, with terror rife, proclaims that a war is told.

"What gives us such authority?"- we reason, from on high,
"why should we fight a stranger's war?"- we preach, while children die,
"who are our friends and who our foes?" we bluster to the wind,
"and why should we have hearts at all?" we muster, in our sin.

Oh proud, haughty, imperial eagle,
weep not for a crumbling Rome.
Shed not your tears for a witless land;
(lest they run from sea to murmuring sea,)
and salt the fields and flood your home, no.
Weep for those who know no flag,
fight for those who have known fear,
uphold those whose shoulders sag,
drain for them your lifeblood dear;
  
If those that loose their lives for love,
gain them back a thousandfold,
let us fight to stop this flood,
smite and strike their stranglehold;

Let rather our eagle fall for mercy, 
than be fatten, plucked, and encased in gold,
Rather we crack our talons smiting slave chains,
than watch as innocence is killed and sold.