My friends are all open minded,
Tolerant in every way.
We smile and nod affirmation,
And accept whatever we say.
Our goal is cooperation,
We honor diversity.
It’s a fuzzy and warm occupation,
Free of adversity.
When contrary thoughts we’re discerning
Being open is what we prefer.
The adventure is constantly learning,
Just what we’re really not sure.
Truth is a slithery, slimy thing.
It always slips out of our head.
It has a vaguely intolerant ring,
So we think it’s better off dead.
Thus, we have no time for elitists,
Who think that they’ve arrived.
Bigots! Fanatics! Homophobes!
Closed-minded, self-satisfied.
No, we’re looking for truth that’s comfortable,
That fits like a well-worn shoe.
We’re looking for truth that suits us,
Whether or not it’s true!
I used to love the Fourth of July, Marching bands, barbecues, Fire in the sky, In the days before we went to war And so many soldiers died. I used to love the Fourth of July.
Great grand-dads saw Korea Grandfathers Viet Nam Fathers fought in Babylon Sons in Afghanistan.
Some went because of boredom. They thought it would be cool. Some joined to have a better life; the chance to go to school.
They joined to stand and test their strength against the gates of hell. They joined to be a part of something bigger than themselves.
I used to love the fourth of July, Summer days and county fairs, Fireworks in the sky, In the days before they went to war, And so many people cried. I used to love the fourth of July.
Great grand-dads saw Korea Grandfathers Viet Nam Fathers fought in Babylon Sons in Afghanistan.
They went away to the Middle East for whatever cause they gave. Some found hate, some fought for peace, and some slept in a grave.
Some came home and fought the war in nightmares, and despair, And lived their lives of freedom too drunk or stoned to care.
Now, on holidays I wonder as I think of what’s been lost, I wonder, when it’s said and done if those wars were worth the cost. They said they were for liberty, so people could be free, But was that the real reason back in Washington, DC?
Great grand-dads saw Korea Grandfathers Viet Nam Fathers fought in Babylon Sons in Afghanistan.
I sit, fingers arched over keyboard. He hovers at my left shoulder like a banshee.
It is the specter of Wendell Berry.
Oh, the fiendish keyboard! The thief that has stolen the tactile pleasures of page and pencil—the raper of paper. It drowns the flow of words with its infernal clacking.
She has been staring at the air, gazing away from Sylvia Plath, a universe on horseback.
Riding.
Fearful
Brooding.
Substanceless.
Suddenly, he is there. Standing only for an instant. Fifties, maybe older. Wire rimmed glasses. Short-cropped beard. Brown tweed jacket and matching cap. An umbrella hanging on his arm. Carrying three books. And, as though he has noticed another title he finds intriguing — “You have beautiful brown eyes”. He continues down the row, a slender silhouette between Classic Fiction and English Essays.
Stepping left, he is
gone.
She does not blush.
Anyway, there was not time. ‘Beautiful brown eyes.’ Nothing suggestive. No
flirtation. A statement of the facts as he saw them. The words hang in the air
like the man’s scent, clean and true.
A doubtful shake of her head –almost imperceptible– she returns to Ariel.
Then, some night, standing at the car door, working the key into the lock, she glances at the black window glass. Her reflection by street light, dark but unmistakably her. In the night she remembers…
You have beautiful
brown eyes.
She settles into the seat and adjusts the mirror. She looks into her own eyes. Fiercely she decides.
She will rise.
Grasp.
Climb.
She
will become.
A brittle fall morning, she stands on the sidewalk. Concrete and steel reaching for the sky–she, tiny at its feet. Doubts flash and thunder.
She enters and finds the restroom. Standing alone by the mirror–you have beautiful brown eyes. She goes to the elevator. She rises.
Again and again, the tireless, wind-words are at her back,
Rising,
Carrying,
Fading — always returning.
Until, year by year, borrowed courage is bought and shelved–a well-worn companion.
She leaves the library, David Whyte in her shoulder bag.
On the sidewalk,
near the book return, she passes a raggedy girl sitting cross-legged. The
carboard sign reads, “Lioness in training. Anything helps.”
The brown-eyed woman
pauses for an instant in front of the raggedy girl who looks up expecting
treasure.
“You have
beautiful blue eyes, young lioness.” And, stepping left around the corner,
she is gone.
In his youth, an old Geezer named Taft, Tattooed his chest just for laughs. That young rapscallion! A tattoo of a stallion, But now it looks like a giraffe!
