Hearing wishes of friends when separated by time and tears
The crying has long been forgotten,
waves of tears lost among stones,
where the earth once sang
its green melody.
Now, only the echoes linger,
whispers of grief without end.
Doesn't the world still ask us to listen,
faint echoes woven in the wind?
Screams claw at the darkened sky,
splintering the stars.
A world gone mad hums its dirge,
a low, throttled sound,
the throat of history choking
on its own ashes.
Yet even in the brokenness, seeds still wait,
longing for the day to grow their roots.
What is left in the millions of leaves,
falling without a sound,
the long breath of the wind
that remembers each name
even as it carries them away.
The way the light swims softly
into what remains unspoken.
When hands meet soil, doesn't the earth sigh,
grateful to be held again?
As this land waits,
patient as the oak,
its roots holding
memories of peace.
If we kneel,
if we listen,
as we tend to the earth,
it may tell us how to begin again.
The wreck of the USS MAGA
(to the tune of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot)
The wreck of the USS MAGA, they say,
Was a story of greed and ambition.
Its captain went down with his lies and his crown,
While he hammered the crew in submission.
The captain declared, "It's my ship to steer,
And no one shall question my power."
But his bluster grew thin as the cracks let him in,
As the hull buckled hour by hour.
The courts were ignored, the truth overboard,
And the rule of law left in tatters.
With lies as his sail, he unleashed the gale,
Tearing through all that once mattered.
The storm wasn't fate, nor the tides of the lake,
But his grip on the laws he perverted.
He dodged every charge, held the courts in his grip,
While the nation was left deserted.
Financial deceit and abuses complete,
With his generals leading the pillage.
The lies he had sown, corruption full-blown,
Left his brand all over the village.
Does anyone know where a nation goes
When its captain becomes the disaster?
The helm spun around, and the ship ran aground,
As chaos consumed it faster.
The ship's crew cried out, "We're trapped in his storm,
And there's no safe harbor to follow!"
The waters rose high with no end in the sky,
While their future grew darker, more hollow.
Freedom's great ship, now adrift in the tide,
Fell victim to hubris unyielding.
Its flags torn and frayed, its promises betrayed,
Left a wreck that will never stop haunting.
Somewhere a small poem is planted, does it grow to the sky?
“Do not despise these small beginnings”
– An angel of the Lord to Zechariah
My poetry can be so small-minded,
where I only speak for myself,
my perspective, my limited
ability to visualize a brighter future.
The reasons are quite many,
and I stray from the counsel
of established poets who know
many ways to fix my poems.
I write in strange hours of the night,
when I should get good sleep —
vital to burst forth in verse at
the instant I wake-up to create.
This smallness suits me.
You are probably not reading
these words after paying a large sum
to purchase a poetry collection.
A minor (small) Bible prophet said,
"Do not despise these small beginnings."
At least, I thought similar verses existed.
Scholars said I use a poor translation.
I threw small kernels of popcorn
into the fire. They burned quickly.
I guess they popped, but the puffed
white corn did not jump into my mouth.
"Small acorns grow into giant oaks"
which is not correct, as the saying is
"Mighty oaks come from tiny acorns"
because not all small acorns succeed.
This sums it up for my small poetry.
1 Zechariah 4:10 (NLT), "Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin, to see the plumb line in Zerubbabel’s hand."
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