RSS Feed

I’ve posted an RSS feed to the “A New Life” podcast under my photo on the right side of this page. The podcast is about surviving the death of a loved one and starting your life over. My wife died from cancer a year ago and the podcast is about how I handled the grief process. Check it out.

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The Sword Of Freedom

bloody sword
As hands are brushed together, dead bodies fall like dust
and a girl in a dress called freedom whirls and twirls
but makes no sound but the sound of a mothers cry.

With the constitution in one hand and a bible in the other,
flames suddenly leap and turn them to ash and
they blow away on the wind called justice.

Crowds leave the synagogue, cathedral and mosque and file
into the furnace while factories make more furnaces
and governments send more children to burn.

The minds eye is blind and feeling it’s way to find
emptiness and sorrow where love once lived.
Time turns backward to other wars with the same stench.

Liberty’s crack grows wider and the clapper has
disappeared to be replaced by the
sword of freedom, and a mother cries again.

And do we watch with hands folded in laps and on
our knees pray to a god who doesn’t listen? And do
we tell our children that this is righteousness?

As our world disappears in flame and ash do
we wish we had done the right thing? Do we say the
words that will set all to right, or collect our pay?

As the wars rage on and refugees muliply we go to our
jobs with blinders in place and plugs in our ears and
pretend we do not see the girl dancing. And bleeding.

And as she falls to the ground her wounds ooze into
the sand and she reaches out to be picked up but
we turn away, not wanting to get our clothes dirty.

With clean hands and clothes some walk away, but
some stoop to carry away the hurt and their
voices are being heard. Quietly now, but getting louder.

The Sword Of Freedom

As hands are brushed together, dead bodies fall like dust
and a girl in a dress called freedom whirls and twirls
but makes no sound but the sound of a mothers cry.

With the constitution in one hand and a bible in the other,
flames suddenly leap and turn them to ash and they blow
away on the wind called justice, replaced by money.

Crowds leave the synagogue, cathedral and mosque and file
into the furnace while factories make more furnaces
and governments send more children to bleed.

The minds eye is blind and feeling it’s way to find
emptiness and sorrow where love once lived.
Time turns backward to other wars with the same stench.

Liberty’s crack grows wider and the clapper has
disappeared to be replaced with the sword of freedom.
(or was it a dress) and a mother cries again.

And do we watch with hands folded in laps and on
our knees pray to a god who doesn’t listen? And do
we tell our children that this is righteousness?

As our world disappears in flame and ash do
we wish we had done the right thing? Do we say the
words that will set all to right, or collect our pay?

As the wars rage on and bodies pile high we go to our
jobs with blinders in place and plugs in our ears and
pretend we do not see the girl dancing. And bleeding.

And as she falls to the ground her wounds ooze into
the sand and she reaches out to be picked up but
we turn away, not wanting to get our clothes dirty.

With ash covered hands and filthy clothes some walk
away but some stoop to carry away the hurt and their
voices are being heard. Quietly now but getting louder.

Baseball Scores

As Americans sit in front of television sets
watching talking heads tally deaths like baseball
scores, vultures chase doves from olive branches.

And the olive trees burn.

Through the flames the vultures wait. Another dove
is consumed and they descend. Pecking out
it’s eyes they eat greedily. Bellies distended.
Who will be left to enjoy a life made
of blood and fire?

And who but eagles could stop them?
But the eagles have strings tied to their wings.
The puppet master demands obedience, pulls the
strings and the eagles dance. They dance for fear.
Fear that their position of power will be taken.
Fear that their influence and money
will be gone.

They have no shame. Their drug of choice is
dangled in front of them like cheese on a
mousetrap. Dance little eagles, dance.
Where is your jesus? What would he say?
Where is your soul? In the talons
of a vulture.

Eagles deaths are as meaningless as doves
to vultures. It’s all the same. Carrion is carrion.
Death is death, where ever it’s found.
Turn on the TV. The talking heads have more
scores.

A Poem For Gaza

Jagged metal falls from the sky
smoke and fear and death
a mothers love escapes into the air.
Six million Jews died
preparing the way for the
ones who followed to become
the ones who killed them.
They die over and over again.
The graves are empty their
souls are lost. They die
over and over again.
Running in the streets
sirens and screams
and laughter from the hilltop.
Laughter resounding around
the world. And we watch
and do laundry and buy
tickets for the game.
And we pay for their death
so happy we are safe and warm.
And the six million die again.
Voices of the dead call out
call out injustice asking is
this what we suffered for?
Is this what the gas chambers
meant? Is this what we have achieved?
Did we not die for you so
you could live? Was it
all for nothing?
Where is the day when
we all stand together?
Where is the day when laughter
is for everyone?
Jagged metal falls from the sky
and the six million die again.

Time

To whom do I owe the pleasure?
To whom ever I choose.
To whom do I owe the time?
To the time keeper, tic toc tic toc.
The stage seeths with the emotion
of the players and yet, it is empty
waiting, waiting.

The life lived is especially precious,
the life given is gone.
To whom do we owe the pleasure?

Given in great numbers to gods and
goddesses, lives, none spared,
none redeemed. Who can know the truth?
Tic toc tic toc, the timekeeper
taps his watch.
Time to face your personal hell,
time, time.

And to this life, I do sing, glasses
raised all around. Bodies swaying, dancing.
The stage rises and the players fall
one by one leaving their mark soon forgotten.
No one puts flowers on their graves anymore.