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Beatitude

Wheat is in the granary, hay is in the shed,
Lengthening autumn nights find me cuddled up in bed,
Reading from the Good Book, and other good books too,
In peaceful contemplation, I find that my troubles are quite few.
Despite my wayward wanderings around this crazy sphere,
I find my troubles melt away about this time of year.
Cider ferments in the jug, a wonderful shade of yellow,
Mix it with whiskey in my glass and I’m a happy fellow.
Harvest bursts the larder and the barn is filled to the brim,
A turkey is in the oven and I’ve found a tree to trim.
Kids are singing carols and they echo through the home,
I’m already wistful for a visit from that jolly Christmas gnome.
The season is upon us, it’s a good time to be living,
So much happiness in my heart, bursting out in pure Thanksgiving,
Despite humble beginnings I find that I’m blessed beyond all expectation,
I find my life completely full with health and love and family and nation.
May this harvest festival find you equally enshrined,
With love and friends and family and blessings on your mind.

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Election Jazz: The Reds and the Blues

Who is to blame for the mess we are in?
Hatred, Strife, Economics, Spin.
Maybe we ourselves hold blame!
Closed-mindedness, zero-sum games.
Perhaps the issue should instead be,
“What does it take to set us free
From fear and doubt and dishonesty?”

Once again America Plebiscites-
In folksy language, we fuss and fight.
Back and forth the political tug-of-war,
No one really wins when everyone is sore.
For “election have consequences” still holds true-
Though political spoils of war make us raw and bruised,
And to our chagrin no election is ever through!

The loser gets ready for shifting political winds,
And the strategy for the next election already begins.
Though the winner seems happy, on closer inspection,
They are already fundraising for their re-election.
The electorate only has itself to blame,
Selecting the same old people for the same old game,
This outcome has become the object of shame.

With empty promises that we continue to buy,
Politicians are incentivized to lie.
We the people keep stuffing the box
For the candidate promising us the fattest ox
With voters on the take, bad fiscal policy begins
As democracy’s life approaches its ends
Didn’t we ramble, with the Saints Marching in?

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Tribes

Gate to Seoul

The World is full of tribes
Some come riding in on horseback with a sickle sword and a compound bow
Others sit in the halls of governance and plot the destruction of their foe at the ballot box
Some cluster in cloisters under the tallest of white steeples or golden domes
Still others fight as talking heads on syndicated airwaves
The tribe never leaves us- cannot leave us
We are the tribes, and we are many

The world is full of tribes
As the Arab proverb goes
“Me against my brother
Me and my brother against my cousin
These three against our village
Our village against the world”

The world is full of tribes
The concept brings us together as community
The concept tears us apart as outsiders
We do horrendous things to our fellow humans
In the name of our tribe
For the good of the tribe we make sacrifices
For the good of the tribe we sacrifice others

The world is full of tribes
They define us
They defile us
They mobilize us
They paralyze us
In the end all they are is us

Perhaps one day, when we sail the celestial seas,
We will see how small and weak the tribes are
And how strong the individual can be
Perhaps one day we will see the end of internecine tribal wars
Perhaps one day we will see that there is only one tribe
Humanity bleeding the same blood
In the same house
On the same cosmic ark
Hurling, spinning through the void

Until the Worlds are full of tribes

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Aurora

Endless Road

The morning process

Of making the coffee.

Sitting in darkness

Waiting for the moments

Of calm.

Dark black moments

Where I sip

On calmness.

Then listen again

To cat crys

And see again

The new dawn.

 

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Vitals

He’d die,
Accompanied
By his rifle,
Steeped in sweat.
Not disinfectant.

The oximeter, low.
No breath is free.
Each is enlisted.
They wake him
To take vitals.

A prisoner of war,
His blood let,
Not to a lab,
To madder root.
It was lunacy.

Men cut
Easier’n cane
They raised.
Lashed- eyes,
And back.

In between,
He waited
For a bullet
To the head.
Not a tumor.

A prison,
The Senate.
Hospitals.
Battle-brought
Nearly home.