The Love of Other
In the dark times
will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing. About the
dark times.
Bertold Brecht
Such a gift to be born
that first breath
of a perfectly innocent being
without a scrap of hate
just waiting to be nourished
grow and reach for the light
one little heart, one little brain
eager to learn.
What a gift to be given
what an opportunity to wipe
the slate clean of hatred
and racial bile, to cut
the umbilical cord
to the murderous past
with the only weapon
worth carrying
the love of other.
Dancing on a Wing of Breath
The wind brought me here
to a hidden corner
on a stony beach
something about the light
the sky, the sea
melting in to one, into me
the pounding waves
sounding like I feel inside
and there she is, my mother
and all the mothers before her
dancing on a wing of breath
becoming my breath
and nothing can stop me now
from releasing a torrent of tears
for all those who’ve passed
and for those wandering over the earth
in search of a home
where bombs don’t fall.
Such a gift to be born
that first breath
of a perfectly innocent being
without a scrap of hate
just waiting to be nourished
grow and reach for the light
one little heart, one little brain
eager to learn.
what an opportunity to wipe
the slate clean of hatred
and racial bile, to cut
the umbilical cord
to the murderous past
with the only weapon
worth carrying
to a hidden corner
on a stony beach
something about the light
the sky, the sea
melting in to one, into me
the pounding waves
sounding like I feel inside
and there she is, my mother
and all the mothers before her
dancing on a wing of breath
becoming my breath
and nothing can stop me now
from releasing a torrent of tears
for all those who’ve passed
and for those wandering over the earth
in search of a home
where bombs don’t fall.
as far as you can see
there’s innocence
deeper than thought
deeper than memory
huddling in the dark
a whimper for a bang
torn up earth
O Goliath
but rubble and blood
and the birth of more war
than a child’s eye:
with star spangled weapons
made out of crusty, old fear
don’t you know?
you’re turning the Star of David
into a boomerang
for your own child’s eye
