Friday, July 5, 2013

She Moves In Mysterious Ways



           
“…take a walk
With your sister the moon
Let her pale light in
To fill up your room
You've been living underground
Eating from a can
You've been running away
From what you don't understand...
Love…

… take a dive
With your sister in the rain
Let her talk about the things
You can't explain
To touch is to heal
To hurt is to steal
If you want to kiss the sky
Better learn how to kneel…

She's the wave
She turns the tide…

It's all right, it's all right, it's all right
She moves in mysterious ways
It's all right, it's all right, it's all right
She moves in mysterious ways
Love
It's all right, it's all right, it's all right
lift my days, light up my nights
Love

One day you will look... back
And you'll see... where
You were held... how
By this love... while
You could stand there
You could move on this moment
Follow this feeling

It's all right, it's all right, it's all right
She moves in mysterious ways
It's all right, it's all right, it's all right
She moves in mysterious ways…


 

The spirit moves in mysterious ways...

 

“She Moves In Mysterious Ways” – U-2






            I know I could be expected to write on the coup in Egypt, the messes and misses of the world, but, today, I take a departure.  One I need to take more often. One from bombast and bad language thrown at far flung places and people who detract from beauty and justice.  Today, I want to write about Nella Cordelia Hampton and her mom, Kelle Hampton.  Because both of them move me in mysterious and beautiful ways. In fact, their whole family does.

            Kelle Hampton, for those who don’t know her, is the mother of three beautiful children, a writer and photographer, a lover.  A lover of life in all its pastels and shades of gray.  She became famous when her sister posted Nella’s birth story.  Nella has Down Syndrome.  Kelle’s beatific journey is captured in gorgeous photographs and words on her own blog.  My wonderful cousin Maria, my soul mate and greatest nurturer, turned me on to this woman, her life, her PERSPECTIVE (and yes, that does deserve to be capitalized).  I want to thank my cousin because, yes, we all need perspective, and the transformative beauty that Kelle provides.  Yes, they move me in mysterious ways.

            Kelle, my cousin tells me, has some detractors.  Because she chooses to love and live fully, to see and embrace beauty where others would only see and embrace heartache, she has haters.  I am told they even have web sites where they bash her. I will not go there because I would resurrect Tony Soprano, may he rest in peace, and go Mafia all over them.  Why do that?  If they choose to spread shit, thick on, like a peanut butter sandwich that would choke rather than nourish, with nothing to wash it down, I can choose to eat manna from Kelle.  If offered on a menu, which would you choose?

            I can see why some might think Kelle is smoking crack, that she is full of hippie-dippie hokum, that she cannot possibly be so full of grace and love, that she cannot choose to be happy because, after all, how many of us are happy?  Know that it can—and MUST—be a choice?  Understand that you can choose to breathe in beauty, or continue to choke on the smoke of your own inner incinerator that feeds off your soul?  Yes, it is hard to make choices and easy to let life drown you.  I would rather be baptized by the waves that Kelle makes than to drown.  For those water-boarders out there, those haters, I say,  “ You can kill time and injure eternity with your hateful rhetoric, but you will not waste mine, my time, my moments here, each one passing leaving fewer to find the gold in a vein running through gray rock, the silver in the lining of magnificent and scary storm clouds, but, more to Kelle’s point, and mine, the majestic, the glorious in the everyday, every-little-thing-she-does-is-magic world we can all choose to live in.”  Kelle says, “…there is magic in that extra chromosome.  Yes, magic.”  She is right.  Nella is magic.  Kelle could have made her existence tragic for everyone in her life.  Instead, she makes Nella’s existence a gift to everyone who will accept it.  If offered to you, would you take a beautiful gift or the shit sandwich?  I would take the gift, eat it like a holy offering, eat it like ice cream running down a child’s chin, with sprinkles all over the place, bathe in it, throw it all over my walls like a Jackson Pollock creation, roll around on the warm, beautified earth, and be satiated.

            To be sure, and very clear, Kelle does not live in a fantasy.  She creates the wonder, discovers it in everything she experiences, but does not fool herself that life is always beautiful.  In fact, she writhes in pain, struggles like all of us, only she puts it out there to be taken in, if one wishes, to be instructive, to be inspirational, to give us all a little window that does not only frame hope, it gives us a way to it, a portal through which to grab it, hungrily, honestly, as the mere mortals that we are.  And, as in Yeats’s poem, The Second Coming, there is nothing “mere” about being mortal, being here.

            Let’s be honest.  We are all experts in hate.  We know it intimately.  We see it on every news broadcast, in every paper, in the too-hard-to-take cruelty toward animals, the elderly, the poor, the ill, the earth.  But what about love?  Philosophers have struggled mightily to define it.  Everyone looks for it.  Many complain they cannot find it.  How many more “Christian Mingle,” “E-Harmony,” or “Match.Com” ads do we have to see to know the desperation?   Well, love is within and all around us.  If we choose to see it, reach in and grab it, wrap our arms around it.  If you love your kids, nieces, nephews, any kid, actually, what is more important—allowing them joy by splashing around in mud, getting sand in your grout work, glittering your hair, your food, your floors—or, keeping your house pristine, the mess unallowed, as the kids nurture deprivation and Mr. Clean gets rich?  Well, love is messy.  Joy is messy.  Living fully is messy.  It’s Mr. Clean or happier kids.  It’s a little more work to get to love.  Is any journey straight and neat?  Are there no stones or bends or boulders in the road? It’s the rocks and the road, the stumbles, falls, and scars or the not going, the not striving, the not living at all. If offered the choice, which would you take?  Do you only see the muddy, stony, scary forest, and not the beautiful tangles and trees making trellises of light to hang memories on?   What’s your focus?” as Kelle says.

            I spent hours yesterday reveling in Nella, Kelle, their family, their lives.  I found her to be more honest than I can sometimes dare to be.  So, what brought me to Kelle?  Well, here’s some honesty.  I feel so broken by the world sometimes. I was talking to Maria about pain. She directed me to Kelle's lovely blog.  I began to feel the heal.

           I love broken things, broken kids, broken people.  Because I am one.  But, I got help and made a tapestry out of my own shatterings, one as beautiful to me as the Unicorns that hang in the Metropolitan Museum.

So, I went in pain to Maria, to whom I always go for everything.  Maria knew just what to do.  She told me I had a choice about how to see things, how to deal with painful fractures of the heart.   Be the bigger person always or as often as you can. Choose happiness,  Choose love. We spent nearly five hours on the phone, she reading Kelle to me, me crying, and headache and all, going to my computer to see the beauty she was relating.

            Yesterday was Independence Day in more ways than one.  I spent the day with Kelle and her family.  I spent the day looking at pictures of Nella.  I spent the day flying free, with beautiful words and pictures taking me on a wonderful journey.  I spent the day in Nella’s almond eyes, feeling the softness of imperfection so perfect, I cried with gratitude for so much beauty.

I spent the day falling in love.

Thank you, Maria, my great, great love, and Kelle, her family, and, most of all, Nella.  I slept in your eyes, Nellabean, your smile, seeing your little pink hands and knitted hats, your too-small-to-be-possible socks and feet in my dreams. You are the wave of grace who turned the tide.
You move me in the most beautiful ways.
           

Saturday, May 4, 2013

'Jihadis' Everywhere, Listen Up



“…Poor poor pitiful me
Poor poor pitiful me
Oh these boys won't let me be
Lord have mercy on me
Woe woe is me

Well I met a man out in Hollywood [wherever]
Now I ain't naming names
Well he really worked me over good
Just like Jesse James
Yes he really worked me over good
He was a credit to his gender
Put me through some changes Lord
Sort of like a Waring blender…”


“Poor, Poor Pitiful Me” – Warren Zevon




            …And, woe, woe, woe are WE.  Is God, Allah, Yahwey.  Is Islam.  Are Muslims, Christians, Jews, everyone.  Are the good.  TO “JIHADIS” EVERYWHERE, LISTEN UP:
You are not Muslims.  You hurt Islam.  You hurt God.  You hurt all the Prophets. ANY “JIHAD” MUST BE AGAINST YOU; FOR YOU ARE THE TRUE ENEMIES OF ISLAM, OF GOD, OF LOVE; FOR GOD IS LOVE, IS CREATION, NOT DESTRUCTION.  STOP MISINTERPRETING THE QU’RAN.  STOP INSINUATING YOUR POVERTY OF THOUGHT, “REASON,” HATRED INTO THE WORDS OF MUHAMMED, INTO THE “INTENTIONS” OF GOD.  YOU ARE A BLIGHT UPON GOD’S WORLD.   YOU DO NOT “DEFEND” ISLAM.  YOU HURT ISLAM AND OUR MUSLIM BROTHERS AND SISTERS EVERYWHERE.  YOU HURT EVERYONE AND ALL RELIGIONS.  YOU DEFILE CREATION WITH YOUR DESTRUCTION.  YOU HURT GOD.

            Radicalization.  It used to mean “becoming extreme, radical in ideology,” NOT “mission creep” into violent action.  THERE IS NO “MISSION” BUT THE ONE “RE-WRITERS” of the QU’RAN are creating to feel powerful, act out their hatreds, the unhealed wounds of sick psyches, USING YOU AS THEIR INSTRUMENTS.  The only thing “FUNDAMENTAL” about the wrongly used term “FUNDAMENTALIST” is the fundamental crack in the mental foundations of those who would act heinously against anyone in the name of any religion.  This includes crazies who call themselves “Christians,” who go blow up abortion clinics.
IF THESE BOYS WON’T LET YOU BE, IF ANYONE IS TELLING YOU THEY HEAR GOD TELLING THEM TO RECRUIT PEOPLE TO DO HARM, YOU MUST, MUST KNOW THEY ARE MENTALLY ILL AND NEED MEDICATION, NOT PROLIFERATION OF THEIR PROFANE IDEAS THEY WANT YOU TO ACTUALIZE, TO ACT OUT.

IF YOU ARE ANGRY, LOST, GO TO THERAPY, DO NOT SEEK OUT THOSE WHO WOULD PLAY TO YOUR BASEST INSTINCTS. SEEK PEACE.  IF YOU SEEK SOME KIND OF VENGEANCE YOU WRONGLY PROSCRIBE TO ANY RELIGION, UNDERSTAND THAT THE HOLY BOOKS OF ALL THE MAJOR RELIGIONS STATE THAT “GOD SAYS, ‘VENGEANCE IS MINE,’” NOT YOURS. THERE ARE OTHER GREAT TRUTHS THAT ALL MAJOR RELIGIONS AND SANE PEOPLE ASCRIBE TO:  THOU SHALT NOT KILL LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF…IF YOU SEE A MOTE IN ANOTHER’S EYE, LOOK INTO YOUR OWN…HE WHO IS WITHOUT SIN, CAST THE FIRST STONE…”
NO ONE, NO RELIGION, NO IDEOLOGY IS SERVED BY VIOLENCE.  IF YOU ACT VIOLENTLY IN THE NAME OF ANY RELIGION OR PHILOSOPHY, YOU ACT AGAINST YOURSELVES AND ALL OTHERS.
In other words, your actions backfire.  And all you serve to do is unleash an UNGODLY moment of anarchy, and God weeps.  As the great poet, William Butler Yeats, said in his poem, “Second Coming,”


           
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity…”

…The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”



We are all tempest-tossed, turning and turning in the widening gyre.  We all have tear-stained, broken dreams.  We all are hurt, are human, are vulnerable.  In our human condition, our pain, and, through our vulnerability, we learn lessons, find strength, hope, faith, and we go on.  We suffer dreams deferred or defeated--yours as well as ours.  We all suffer when one among us, among humanity suffers.  We suffer for the women who are raped, beaten, burned, killed.  We suffer for the men, women, and children in poverty, in hunger, in danger, in despair, in ALL countries.  We suffer over injustice.  BUT, WE ACT IN CONSTRUCTIVE WAYS TO SEEK HEALING, ALLEVIATION.  WE DO NOT BOMB, MAIM, DESTROY. DO NOT CONFUSE US—EVERYWHERE, ANYWHERE—WITH THE ACTIONS OF GOVERNMENTS; FOR WE ARE INDIVIDUALS WORKING COLLECTIVELY, PEACEABLY FOR JUSTICE AND PEACE, UNIVERSALLY.

Yes, the worst ARE full of passionate intensity.  Read “worst” as all of those whose “convictions” wreak havoc:  Republicans, Evangelists, “Crusaders” for anything against humanity, the human condition, and who all seem to co-opt GOD as their back-up guy.  YOU.  We cannot afford, nor must we allow, mere anarchy to be loosed upon the world.  We will not swim in blood-dimmed tides.  We will all be bloodied by the acts of those with such HUBRIS as to think they know what God wants.  What you, politicians, evangelists, extremists, “jihadis” want is POWER, and it is more illusion, delusion than real.  True power is not pitched to a wail.  It does not need to be.  It can be quiet.  It can be humble.  It can only be humane, as it must be just.


The Poverty of Power.  Those seeking it are in need.  Those trying to hold it are in the grasp of the elusive.  And centuries of sleep, the “not knowing” of the kind of evil that wants to be all-powerful, that steals children, that makes them forget their humanity, their place, a holier, humane purpose to life, has been vexed to nightmare by the rocking cradle you once lay in, rough beast, until you grew into ability, and went stumbling to Hell, not Bethlehem.

Poor, Poor Pitiful You.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

The Poverty Of Power



“…Poor poor pitiful me
Poor poor pitiful me
Oh these boys won't let me be
Lord have mercy on me
Woe woe is me

Well I met a man out in Hollywood [wherever]
Now I ain't naming names
Well he really worked me over good
Just like Jesse James
Yes he really worked me over good
He was a credit to his gender
Put me through some changes Lord
Sort of like a Waring blender…”


“Poor, Poor Pitiful Me” – Warren Zevon




            …And, woe, woe, woe are WE.  Is God, Allah, Yahwey.  Is Islam.  Are Muslims, Christians, Jews, everyone.  Are the good.  TO “JIHADIS” EVERYWHERE, LISTEN UP:
You are not Muslims.  You hurt Islam.  You hurt God.  You hurt all the Prophets. ANY “JIHAD” MUST BE AGAINST YOU; FOR YOU ARE THE TRUE ENEMIES OF ISLAM, OF GOD, OF LOVE; FOR GOD IS LOVE, IS CREATION, NOT DESTRUCTION.  STOP MISINTERPRETING THE QU’RAN.  STOP INSINUATING YOUR POVERTY OF THOUGHT, “REASON,” HATRED INTO THE WORDS OF MUHAMMED, INTO THE “INTENTIONS” OF GOD.  YOU ARE A BLIGHT UPON GOD’S WORLD.   YOU DO NOT “DEFEND” ISLAM.  YOU HURT ISLAM AND OUR MUSLIM BROTHERS AND SISTERS EVERYWHERE.  YOU HURT EVERYONE AND ALL RELIGIONS.  YOU DEFILE CREATION WITH YOUR DESTRUCTION.  YOU HURT GOD.

            Radicalization.  It used to mean “becoming extreme, radical in ideology,” NOT “mission creep” into violent action.  THERE IS NO “MISSION” BUT THE ONE “RE-WRITERS” of the QU’RAN are creating to feel powerful, act out their hatreds, the unhealed wounds of sick psyches, USING YOU AS THEIR INSTRUMENTS.  The only thing “FUNDAMENTAL” about the wrongly used term “FUNDAMENTALIST” is the fundamental crack in the mental foundations of those who would act heinously against anyone in the name of any religion.  This includes crazies who call themselves “Christians,” who go blow up abortion clinics.
IF THESE BOYS WON’T LET YOU BE, IF ANYONE IS TELLING YOU THEY HEAR GOD TELLING THEM TO RECRUIT PEOPLE TO DO HARM, YOU MUST, MUST KNOW THEY ARE MENTALLY ILL AND NEED MEDICATION, NOT PROLIFERATION OF THEIR PROFANE IDEAS THEY WANT YOU TO ACTUALIZE, TO ACT OUT.

IF YOU ARE ANGRY, LOST, GO TO THERAPY, DO NOT SEEK OUT THOSE WHO WOULD PLAY TO YOUR BASEST INSTINCTS. SEEK PEACE.  IF YOU SEEK SOME KIND OF VENGEANCE YOU WRONGLY PROSCRIBE TO ANY RELIGION, UNDERSTAND THAT THE HOLY BOOKS OF ALL THE MAJOR RELIGIONS STATE THAT “GOD SAYS, ‘VENGEANCE IS MINE,’” NOT YOURS. THERE ARE OTHER GREAT TRUTHS THAT ALL MAJOR RELIGIONS AND SANE PEOPLE ASCRIBE TO:  THOU SHALT NOT KILL LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THYSELF…IF YOU SEE A MOTE IN ANOTHER’S EYE, LOOK INTO YOUR OWN…HE WHO IS WITHOUT SIN, CAST THE FIRST STONE…”
NO ONE, NO RELIGION, NO IDEOLOGY IS SERVED BY VIOLENCE.  IF YOU ACT VIOLENTLY IN THE NAME OF ANY RELIGION OR PHILOSOPHY, YOU ACT AGAINST YOURSELVES AND ALL OTHERS.
In other words, your actions backfire.  And all you serve to do is unleash an UNGODLY moment of anarchy, and God weeps.  As the great poet, William Butler Yeats, said in his poem, “Second Coming,”


           
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity…”

…The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”



We are all tempest-tossed, turning and turning in the widening gyre.  We all have tear-stained, broken dreams.  We all are hurt, are human, are vulnerable.  In our human condition, our pain, and, through our vulnerability, we learn lessons, find strength, hope, faith, and we go on.  We suffer dreams deferred or defeated--yours as well as ours.  We all suffer when one among us, among humanity suffers.  We suffer for the women who are raped, beaten, burned, killed.  We suffer for the men, women, and children in poverty, in hunger, in danger, in despair, in ALL countries.  We suffer over injustice.  BUT, WE ACT IN CONSTRUCTIVE WAYS TO SEEK HEALING, ALLEVIATION.  WE DO NOT BOMB, MAIM, DESTROY. DO NOT CONFUSE US—EVERYWHERE, ANYWHERE—WITH THE ACTIONS OF GOVERNMENTS; FOR WE ARE INDIVIDUALS WORKING COLLECTIVELY, PEACEABLY FOR JUSTICE AND PEACE, UNIVERSALLY.

Yes, the worst ARE full of passionate intensity.  Read “worst” as all of those whose “convictions” wreak havoc:  Republicans, Evangelists, “Crusaders” for anything against humanity, the human condition, and who all seem to co-opt GOD as their back-up guy.  YOU.  We cannot afford, nor must we allow, mere anarchy to be loosed upon the world.  We will not swim in blood-dimmed tides.  We will all be bloodied by the acts of those with such HUBRIS as to think they know what God wants.  What you, politicians, evangelists, extremists, “jihadis” want is POWER, and it is more illusion, delusion than real.  True power is not pitched to a wail.  It does not need to be.  It can be quiet.  It can be humble.  It can only be humane, as it must be just.


The Poverty of Power.  Those seeking it are in need.  Those trying to hold it are in the grasp of the elusive.  And centuries of sleep, the “not knowing” of the kind of evil that wants to be all-powerful, that steals children, that makes them forget their humanity, their place, a holier, humane purpose to life, has been vexed to nightmare by the rocking cradle you once lay in, rough beast, until you grew into ability, and went stumbling to Hell, not Bethlehem.

Poor, Poor Pitiful You.


Friday, April 19, 2013

How It Happens




I am invisible
When I walk into
A room
I have to be
Loud, intrusive
If you are
Talking to another
Then you
Are not
Talking to
Me
So I interrupt
You
Because you
Don’t
See
Me.

I am hungry
For attention
I don’t get
And never did
The growl of
My need
Spews out
My mouth
Knocks people
Down
Screams over
Others.

I am empty
Nothing
Fills or
Satisfies me
Not
Food or
Sports or
School or
Smiles or
Empty conversation.

I am no one
I will turn
To
God
Or
Gangs
Or
Guns
Or
Gutters
To
Learn
To
Be
And
To
Be
Seen.

I will join a
Church
Temple
Mosque
Jihad
War
Fight
Rape
Kill
Condemnation.

I will feel
Better
Blessed
Chosen
Crowned
Brother
Sister
Soldier
Martyr.

I will die
Killing
Maiming
Shaming
Many,
Many
Others
Too
Blind
To
See
Me
Before.

I will be
Famous
Omnipresent
Bogeyman
Monster
Under
Your
Bed
Every
Night
And
Day.

I will leave my
Mark
Scar
Piss
Shit
Desecration
Abomination
Everywhere
And
For
All
Time.

I was once invisible
You did not
See me
Hear me
Want me
Hold me
Touch me
Feed me
Watch me
Know me
Guide me.

But now
You will
Never
Forget
Me
Because
I Am
And
Always
Will Be 
Blasphemy

Thursday, April 18, 2013

We Will Never Forget This



They can’t paint the blood
Off of Sandy Hook’s walls
Tidal wave, and red river
Flowing down the school halls
We asked for some justice
We got none at all
How do we get up
After this fall?


Went to the home
Of our democracy
Said, “Please Mr. Senator,
Won’t you help me?”
He smiled and he fawned
Said, “Please move along;
You can’t get nothin’ helpful
From me”

No considered act of kindness
From the simple, sick
And mindless
For all of those souls
Our Senate’s
Too white and too male
And too old
You all got blood
On your hands and your souls

What the hell are you doing
In all of our names?
We sent you to do
Whatever it takes
For us, not for you,
Or the NRA
We’re here to tell you
“Just go and we’ll stay.”

Why are you there?
You never did care
You’re prostitutes to power
Never had a “finest hour”
Why you there?
When everyone knows
You don’t care


Way back when, in 1776
Brave, tired people were
Itchin’ for a fix
Put it all on the line
Dragged a king through
the slime
Don’t think we can’t do it
A second time

We made a Declaration
Said we can abolish you
Make a new nation
For the greater good, too
Can’t pimp out Lady Liberty
We just won’t let you
Why don’t you just leave
And go fuck yourself, too

What the hell are you doing
In all of our names?
We sent you to do
Whatever it takes
For us, not for you,
Or the NRA
We’re here to tell you
We’re here to stay


You said, “Keep walkin’”
Well, we’re here
To do the talkin’
For all of those who got
Blown away…


Their names are on
my tongue
The beautiful and the young
Lives like songs
Waiting to be sung:

This is for Rachel, Ana, Charlotte,
Danny, Jesse, Jack
All little angels
who are not coming back,
And Olivia, Josephine, Dylan,
Lauren and Dawn
The agony and the list goes on
There’s Madeleine, Catherine, Chase,
Caroline, Jessica, Grace,
Benjamin, Avielle, Vicki,
Mary, Anne Marie, Emilie,
Allison, Noah, and James

We will never forget
Their lives
And their names

“We Will Never Forget This” – Joan Reale

This is for all victims of gun violence everywhere,
and, with special appreciation for Gabby Giffords...




I don’t know what to say about yesterday’s fall.  I can’t write much that has not already been written, say what hasn't already been said.  I offer this poem, in the hope that it will say something meaningful, something from me. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Great Lyric, A Bad Poem, And I'm Appreciatin' It All...





How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, ’n’ how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, ’n’ how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, ’n’ how many times can a man turn his head
Pretending he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, ’n’ how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, ’n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

                                                      “Blowin' in the Wind” - Bob Dylan




Today someone’s eight year old
Is being mourned
And another with no future
Is somewhere being born
I think everyone should try on
A weighty crown of thorns
Count the tears in Earth’s raiment
Before making more
What to do?
What to do?

Stop countin’ the wrongs
Someone’s always doin’ you
Look into the mirror
See the hurt you caused, too
Twenty babies dead just North
Of me and nothin’ I can do
‘Cept write a song like a hymn
And send it out to you

There is no grand solution
That doesn’t take us all
There ain’t no perfection here
We all stumble
We all fall
But the blood that we shed
And tears we cause others to cry
Should be accidental at the least
Tryin’ to tame the wild beast inside

Baptize me at the well of forgiveness
That never goes dry
Make me see the least of me
In another man’s eye
We all gotta stop pretendin’
We got no hand in this
Can’t heal a hurtin’ world
With a Judas kiss
What to do?
I’m all in
What about you?

You say you don’t fit in
You feel like an other
Extend your hand
To the next man
And call him your brother
There’s a cure for these ills
If you got the will
What will you do?
I’m all in
What about you?

Hate is the foulest of
Four letter words
Get down on your knees
For those you have hurt
Change comes slow and hard
If you want it to
I guess it depends upon you
What to do?
I’m all in
What about you?

So what will you do, now
Now that you know?
Tell yourself the hard truths
And hate will let you go
How do I know this?
I been there, I know
I think it’s time for you
To let it go
That’s what you do
I’m all in
What about you?

Shout your love
From the mountain tops
Before they disappear
We ain’t been good stewards
Laid down waste the Earth
Can’t bear
We’re learnin’ hard lessons
Ain’t that good to hear?
Put ‘em in action
That’s what we could do
I’m all in
What about you?


What to do?
Try and live true.
What to do?
Help another through
What to do?
Thread the needle
Sew up someone’s wounds
Doin’ some good
Is all we can do
I’m all in
What about you?

  “What About You?” – Joan Reale



            It takes guts to follow great lyrics with a bad poem.  I got guts.  Bob Dylan wrote the classic, “Blowin’ In The Wind” in 1962.  Fifty-one years ago, a half a century ago, and it still applies.  So, how many roads?  How many tears?  How many deaths before we realize ALL of this is in OUR collective hands. … Ok. I got thrown off track:  Someone just called my number; I answered it, and this man said, “Saddam?”  Is this a good sign?  I’m gonna take it as one.

Instead of screeching about all the world’s ills, I really need to get back to my commitment to find those things for which I can be grateful—a commitment I did not mean to break…I really upset myself with my last screed about violence against women and had to sleep.  For two days.  Yes, caring and cursing have their costs.
Now, back to my commitment…


Today, I am grateful for…



1.  Bob Dylan writing “Blowin’ In The Wind” fifty years ago.  I am grateful for beautiful songs.


2.  Going shopping straight from work even though I had to pee in the worst way.  I am grateful I do not need “Depends” yet.


3.  That Boston is coming together, there were not more deaths, and prayers are going out from all over the place.  I am grateful for prayers.


4.  First responders, who run toward the things that make us run away.  I am grateful for the EMTs, police, firefighters, doctors, nurses, volunteers who responded when some bastard, or bastards, who didn’t get therapy or enough attention from their parents decided to blow some people away.  I am grateful for first responders.


5.  My students, who, knowing I was having bad anxiety over tomorrow’s all-day visit by our new principal, took up my challenge that they shine tomorrow by teaching.  They all did research and wrote lesson plans.  They were beautiful.  I am grateful for my students.


6.  My anxiety, that has momentarily lifted.  Tomorrow is another story.  I hope to be grateful for calm tomorrow, as I am grateful for it today.


7.  Maria, my BEAUTIFUL cousin, who believes my destiny is to be a real writer.


8.  Emmie, my BEAUTIFUL daughter-doggie, who ALWAYS makes me feel better, my Beautiful Melissa, whose messages and posts lift my spirits and are the first things I check for when I wake up, and my Beautiful Nicole, who makes me feel like she lives across the street when she actually lives across the world, and whose messages are also the first things I check for when I wake up.  I am grateful for Emmie, Melissa, and Nicole.


9.  Having the guts to write a poem after putting in print Bob Dylan’s great lyrics.


10.  That I got a phone call from a guy who thought I was “Saddam.”  How many other people can say that?  I am grateful for a wrong number.


More tomorrow…