Skip to main content

Antidote to Rage

You seethe and you breathe
And you breathe and you seethe.
You are piled upon and buried.
Your well of mercy is emptied.

There might be peace, peace in fear
Peace on a bullet, peace within a tear.
Peace in blood, peace that seeps
Won by that which hatred could reap.

You are a coward and a hero
You found the middle path to zero
You didn’t pull the trigger.
Your infection can only grow bigger.

Will you die a bitter man?
Poisoned by regret to the end?
Wondering that if you killed
It just might be a better world?

You made room for God
And secretly doubt the whole façade
Kneeling and praying in good motion
Desperately seeking divine devotion.

You are confused and sad
Little things make you mad
Small child, grow up and ignore
Earth’s few things that abhor.

Keep walking among the ferns
Write your poetry, admire God’s patterns
Unclench your fist not so slowly
Accept your place no matter how lowly.

There is peace in love
And only in love is there peace
Find it in a flower, find it in a friend
Live out your life with a smile to the end

Happiness is better than revenge.

Comments

  1. I've been struggling with some painful disappointment this last few weeks, so that last stanza read like a hug of encouragement. Thanks!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love

Unbroken smooth between before after bruises bashes and shatters Beyond humid shocking kisses rather a cool lasting that matters. You are the one safe place I know. Fingertip gravity cheeks to lips Returning coming going and home Never leaving steadfast praying grips the exploding expanse of a poem. You are what I will never give up. Arlington to Golgotha, offices to factories Shoulder in, eyes forward, chin up Quiet unspoken shared stories lingering lost ring of a coffee cup. You are my favorite ghost. (written for One Single Impression) http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

Holiday Tables

Ours is a song of holiday tables. Clattering chatter of our dining room, Wedding china, and shared fables. This is the history of the baby boom. Clattering chatter of our dining room “Remember?” “No, not him, he’s dead.” “Oh, yeah, too bad. Cancer, I assume.” Auntie Vera remembered a good book she’d read. Remembered? Better remembered than be dead. Uncle Jack’s scotch needs more ice. He has to drive.  His face is looking red. John offers his best Republican advice. Uncle Jack’s scotch needs more ice. Good buddy Bain helps clear the dishes. Pat’s telling a story. We’ve all heard it (at least twice). Jesus! Is it Easter or is it Christmas? Good buddy Bain helps clear the dishes Oh God! Who can eat cake? We’re too full. Around here, it’s like the loaves and the fishes. Cathy knitted that scarf, real New Zealand wool. No way. Can’t do it. Can’t eat, too full. “Yes, Sinatra was great but Elvis was better.” “But      "My real name is Mister Earl”, in the lull.   Mom knows her doo-w

Bury Me In Turquoise

Evening was spying from the apple orchard the first time I opened my eyes under Great-Grandma's turquoise afghan I heard my parents dancing in the kitchen. A little later, Grandma would announce evening across the yards to end our game one out, two on and the inning was over in a dash to clean our hands before Grace. Evening became an exotic land; the home of sex and sin and petty vandalism to be invaded by silly boys armed with hormones looking for something pretty to hold on to. Evening starts when I put my briefcase down. We share it with the salad bowl and laughter. It is the safest place I know in our golden little home. The sound of evening is in my daydreams in the muttering of its nightclub clientele beneath a boozy saxophone and cocktail clinks. It sounds like sequins and purple. Evening will wait outside the church when my son carries me on his shoulder past the bagpiper and into St. Rose's. Bury me in turquoise and strike up the band. (t