December 25

"Good will to men!"
Choirs of angels sing,
Lifting their voices high.
Stories of gifts
The Wise Men did bring,
But I ask myself why?
Where has the love for other men
Gone in these passing days?
Why has the Christ one
Clear in Christmas
Faded to a haze?
Kettles clink with too few coins
Too many eat too well,
While all the while in some dark corner
Hungry faces tell
Of sadness, hunger, loss of hope –
Why should they rejoice?
'Cause no matter how loud they cry
No one hears their voice.
But, as all good Christians usually do
On this happy day
They turn their backs,
Sit down to eat and
Go on their merry way.

Perceptions

He looked and looked and looked again;
he rubbed his eyes and looked and then
he saw so clear, but knew not what
it meant to him, or so the thought,
until he tried to sort things out,
but then his mind was full of doubt
and still unsure his mind did stray:
the vision would not go away,
nor would the tastes, the smells, the sound,
all signals full load, all in-bound,
until his head would sheer explode
or maybe, it would just implode:
it didn't matter either way,
his self he tried so hard to save
to no avail, he'd lost his hold
upon his dreams – no, those he'd sold –
and so he tried to take firm hold
of what he saw; he thought he'd told
what was right, good, of course, the truth;
he thought he'd done so since his youth,
yet that was just a twist of fate
and breathing in, he tried to wait
but stumbling, grasping, thinking back
he couldn't say, he'd lost the track
or scent or trail or what it's called
and losing more, he was appalled
that he, so proud, of all he knew
could find himself in such a stew,
for this was stuff for simpler men
who rubbed their eyes and looked again.
But all we've got are senses, five:
without them, we could not survive.

Not-born-in-the-USA Blues

She was eight years-old. She had her whole life
before her, till she was bug-splatted
like her brothers, her sister, her mother.
Father was vaporized a year ago.

And her annihilation will be argued
(by untouched, made-up heads, wanting to be
something, someone, but at her expense)
if it was a good bomb, or a bad one.

And the polls and pundits pontificate
in those far-off lands of the occident,
so unknown, so different, so exotic,
like in a thousand and one horrid dreams.

We all know: the world must be made safe.
From whom? For whom? And why was that again?
I couldn't hear you. They're droning my home.
Oh! sorry you feel threatened round your campfire.

But, decisions must be made, and hard ones:
tough love, I say, when it kills to be kind;
and, well, you cannot know what's good for you
when you live that close to oil; we know best;

we're all called upon to make sacrifices,
for ways-of-life are at stake, just not yours;
we're so sorry you happened to be,
by chance, at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was eight years-old. I had my whole life
in front of me, till I was bug-splatted
like my brothers, my sister, my mother.
Father was vaporized a year ago.

Exit, stage left

In 1965, The Byrds covered a Pete Seeger song that ended up being the US #1 hit with the oldest lyrics, namely, Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. It was wisdom all decked out in hippie garb. And even though the song has faded to a mere "classic", what it had to say was as true then as when the words were first written down, and they're just as true today. There is a time for every purpose under heaven.

William Shakespeare, one insightfully poignant observer of life and the human condition, eloquently expressed a corollary of thereof, which we also recognize as true when we are reminded of it, namely,

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts ...
(As You Like It, II, vii)

He then goes on to describe the several seasons of one human life, and in each of these seasons, all those purposes of the Preacher take on differing degrees of emphasis, if not necessity. That is the way of life. We are all called on to decide which roles to play when and how, and what to leave in and what to leave out.

The world is not any better than it was when The Byrds caught my fancy and fired my desires so long ago. I make no bones about it. The world wasn't in good shape then, but I thought it could be changed. I was shown it can be changed, but not necessarily for the better. Well, at least for the better for most of us. Some folks made out like bandits, because most of them were. I believe we're in this life to learn, and I've learned that much at least. Still, I'm ashamed of myself for not managing more. I'll try to do better next time.

This time, of course, it would be tempting to get lost in that thick forest of remembered hopes, dreams, aspirations, failures, illusions, and disappointments, but I have grandsons now who will have to live with what we have done. I have a lot of explaining to do, and more.

In other words, it has become clear, to me at least, that my own purposes, role, and part to play have changed, and there are just so many hours in a day. I think Robert Frost ("Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening") sums it up best:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Godspeed.