Spring Crept In

The chickadee and nuthatch, the finch

and sparrow have survived the winter months’

cold and snow and gusty winds buffeting them

flittering between branch and feeder, a quick seed

and returning, or leisurely dining on the railing

outside my window on a warm winter day,

surviving as did we, trapped as we were inside ourselves,

wrapped in the garb of winter cold and darkness

clutched tight about us, hats pulled low, and scarved;

but today, spring crept in, the lion of winter settling down

awaiting the lamb, his roar but a purr amidst the melting

snow and ice of rising degrees, raising, too, our hopes

for change, rebirth and renewal, daffodils and irises sprouting,

the transient birds stopping by, and the birds of summer

returning, old friends gone south, migrating, coming home.

Listen to the Silence

Out quietly walking, deep

in thought, and all sound ceases,

even the music of the wind blowing,

your own breathing in and out,

the footfalls you leave on the gravel path,

-- not a sound, not a noise,

only silence, a stillness;

keep listening, listening for the soft voice

whispering inside you, barely recognized,

the sound of yourself welling up,

asking to be heard, that still small voice

you first heard in the darkness

of the womb, grown silent in leaving,

pushing you into the light, into the noise

and the confusion, the chaos called living,

growing up, childhood into adulthood and old age,

life drowning out that silenced voice left behind,

that same small voice in the darkness calling you now,

to remember, to recall your own beginnings,

your own past, the journeys you were meant to take,

discovering, again, who you are.

It's always the children

who suffer most in war, some adult

squabble over saving face, feeling superior,

accusations made and threats exchanged,

and the children’s lives, their dreams and visions

are sacrificed for someone else’s ancient ideology,

time-worn ideas in need of youthful fantasy and imagination,

in need of the children’s laughter and longings,

not in young lives laid down, taken, or forever changed

by short-thinking old men bent on selfish gain,

forgetting their own childhoods, their own children,

crushing now the innocents’ hopes and dreams,

hopes and dreams full of possibility, dismantled,

their wings clipped by tragedy and fear and death,

wings meant to set them free, fly them upward,

higher and higher, ungrounded, toward the heavens,

setting us all free to see a better world, a better future,

mankind working together for good, for the children

lost in war, working together for Peace. 

Sacrificial

And the blood of sacrifice, flowing

out, is shed to appease the gods,

the greater deity, our guilt absolved,

cleansed and atoned of our sins;

but maybe the gods remain unsatisfied,

the smell of blood, the crackle of burned

flesh an offense, this temporary groveling

soon forgotten; what they want, perhaps,

what they ask of us, is life and purpose,

humanity, again, reflecting them.