Futility

all around the world

we scream out against war crimes 

but who’s listening?

*

an island man stands

up to his waist in water

above his drowned house

*

most people can see

what's wrong with war and greed

yet governments still ...

*

The Choice

In a world

of so much hatred,

how to continue

to be of love?

How to resist

being frozen in horror?

Or burning 

with rage and blame?

But those

are not the ways.

Only peace

can beget peace.

If only 

we could each

become an oasis

of light.

I imagine

each small circle of light 

spreading,

merging.

I can’t make it so

for others. 

Each can only 

choose it ourselves.

And why – in the face 

of pain and injustice?

So as not to be 

that which I abhor.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #107. The prompt is to write about a time when we weren't sure if we could (or wanted to) do something but ended up doing it anyway. What I've written is a little bit different  – more about something I want to do but (being human) often end up falling short.

Visiting the Dead

Patti Smith, in 'A Book of Days,' includes a photo of an angel in a cemetery. She says, 'Visiting the grave of Bertholt Brecht, I always pause to touch her wings.' 

That 'always' makes me wonder about the frequency of her visits … her pilgrimage, one might deduce.

I suppose it's convenient for people to have somewhere to go, to remember and reflect on those who have passed on before us, whether family members and friends or those great figures we have revered. 

I don't much hold with visiting graves, myself. I also don't have much tolerance for funerals. The body, no matter how wonderful it was in life (and they are all wonderful, bodies) is a mere empty shell after the soul has flown. Funerals and graves and urns full of ashes, it seems to me, are really for the living who are  left behind.

I would rather remember my family members by their photos taken when they were warm with life; my friends by their words and actions; the 'towering dead' (as Dylan Thomas called them) by their works which remain to move and inspire us.

your living face 

the timbre of your voice 

indelible –

even after being gone

for years of memories

Note: The Dylan Thomas reference is to his poem, 'In my Craft or Sullen Art.'

In Friday Writings #106, Magaly asks us to include in a piece of writing the full title of a book we're reading or planning to read this December. I have been reading Patti Smith's 'A Book of Days' all year, one day at a time, and am continuing to do so during December.