Humanity

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas (If I love you Philippines)

Fr Roberto Reyes

Kung Mahal Kita Pilipinas,
Dangal ko pagpapahalagahan.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kalusugan iingatan.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Pamilya pagbubuklurin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kapwa tao mamahalin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipanas,
Kabuhayan pagsisikapan.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kasayasayan pagaaralan.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kultura sasalaminin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Sariling Wika gagamitin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kapaligiran lilinisin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Pulitika aayusin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Hustisya paiiralin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kapayapaan palalaganapin.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Kahirapan wawakasan.

Kung mahal kita Pilipinas,
Panginoong Diyos pakikinggan. 

Fr Roberto: A friend and author Alex Lacson wrote a small book entitled, “12 Things That Every Filipino Can Do To Help Our Country.” With Valentine’s Day coming, his 12 Things inspired me to write Fourteen Ways Filipinos Can Show Love for the Philippines. I enumerated fourteen fundamental values: 1) Dangal (Dignity); 2) Kalusugan (Health); 3) Pamilya (Family); 4) Kapwa tao (Neighbor); 5) Kabuhayan (Livelihood); 6) Kasaysayan (History); 7) Kultura (Culture); 8) Sariling Wika (Mother Tongue); 9) Kapaligiran (Environment); 10) Pulitika (Politics); 11) Hustisya (Justice); 12) Kapayapaan (Peace); 13) Kahirapan (Poverty); 14) Diyos (God). Each line begins with “Kung mahal kita Pilipinas” which means “If I love you Philippines,” and continues with a phrase that expresses a commitment to promote or pursue a particular value. 

Why these fourteen values? The fourteen are core Filipino values which are both cherished but at the same time threatened. Likewise, we can focus on one value everyday from the first to the fourteenth of February (Valentine’s Day) to reflect, discuss and promote it. Thus, Valentine’s Day becomes richer and broader in meaning.

Yet another incident in July 1983

Basil Fernando

Burying the dead
being an art well developed in our times
(Our psychoanalysts having helped us much
to keep balanced minds—whatever
that may mean)
there is no reason really
for this matter to remain so vivid
as if some rare occurrence. I assure you
I am not sentimental, never having
had a ‘break down’, as they say.
I am as shy of my emotions
as you are. And I attend to my daily
tasks in a very matter-of-fact way.
Being prudent, too, when a government says:
“Forget!” I act accordingly.
My ability to forget
has never been doubted. I’ve never
had any adverse comments
On that score either. Yet I remember
the way they stopped that car,
the mob. There were four
in that car: a girl, a boy
(between four and five it seemed) and their
parents, I guessed, the man and the woman.
It was in the same way they stopped other cars.
I did not notice any marked
 
Difference. A few questions
in a gay mood, not to make a mistake
I suppose. Then they proceeded to
action. By then a routine. Pouring
petrol and all that stuff.
Then someone, noticing something odd
as it were, opened the two left side
doors; took away the two children,
crying and resisting as they were moved
away from their parents.
Children’s emotions have sometimes
to be ignored for their own good, he must have
thought. Someone practical
was quick, lighting a match
efficiently. An instant
fire followed, adding one more
to many around. Around
the fire they chattered
of some new adventure. A few
Scattered. What the two inside
felt or thought was no matter.
Peace-loving people were hurrying
...towards homes as in a procession
Then, suddenly, the man inside,
breaking open the door, was
out, his shirt already on
fire and hair, too. Then, bending,
Took his two children. Not even
looking around, as if executing a calculated
decision, he resolutely
re-entered the car.
Once inside, he closed the door
himself—I heard the noise
distinctly.
 
Still the ruined car
is there, by the roadside
with other such things. Maybe
the Municipality will remove it
One of these days
to the capital’s
garbage pit. The cleanliness of the capital
receives Authority’s top priority.

Indifference 

Vanessa O’Dwyer

My name is Indifference
And I travel ‘round.
I’ve traveled the
World so much!

I lived in the South
When the black man
Was beaten and treated
Worse than an animal
But I saw no man beaten!

I was just outside the gates
Of Auschwitz as the ashes of men
Of women and children
Rained down like snow.
But they were so inferior!

I was there as young girls
Were made wives
And forced upon
By their elders
As their “faith” dictates!

I was there for certain
As a young girl was sold
So that another may
Please himself with her.
She was such a burden!

I was there in Zimbabwe
When some were threatened
And not allowed to vote
Ah yes, I was there
But when does it count, anyway?

I have been there, but you’ll not find me
I can read, but I know nothing
I watch the news, but am not involved
I watch videos, and comment freely
I socially network, but sit on my ass

Yes, I’ve been around
The world you can see
And that world knows me as
Indifference

Dear Che

K G Sankarapillai

Dear Che,
you came to our university campus
in mid sixties 
with a comrade and a modernist friend
with visuals of jungles past and present 
with a vision of a new battle for justice.

Like a fresh wind of October
you  joined us
moved  us
renewed  us
and smoothened our entry into history
with love, dreams and plans.

You told us about the sleeping rebel powers
of mountains and forests of the new minds;
quite often  you talked of the day when
‘the Andes would become
the Sierra Maestra of America.’ 

Our modernist friend said:
you are the red star over the world
tarnished by America;
you are the future of the world
crippled by America;
you are the Jesus of the modern age
crucified by America.

Although you remained evergreen in us
showed us the exit to the oceans
from the lyrical ponds of our
post Independent Indian youth;
the exit to the storm from the water lily breeze
of our weeping  romantic poems;
dear doctor, you redefined us
living with us
living for us
living in us
passing the confidence of torrents into our deserts
weaving sunlit paths into our prodigal nights.

You brought world into our words
and future into our past.
You opened blast-furnaces for our ore.

Translated from Malayalam by A Lakshmi.

Oh, you miserable pen pusher

Basil Fernando

Oh, you miserable pen pusher
Trying to kill the dead the second time

Your sword cannot hurt the dead
It hurts the living which includes you

To those who are killed
We need to apologize
To remove the pain of the living
To prevent the living rooting alive

You poison your drink
And of others
Dead do not die again
You and other livings ones do all the time.

We should apologize to dead
For their murders
To save ourselves
From our collective death

You rotting pen pusher
Look in the mirror and smile
In the mirror you will see
Something worse than death 

What Moves Us

Shailja Patel

Some moments, history comes to us and says:
What do you truly want?

We tremble.
Often we run.
From the terrifying possibility
that we could choose
movement.
That we could begin
exactly where we are
in all our screwed-up imperfection.

Some days we stand before our world
and the question
vibrates the air around us:
What do you choose?

This day?
This moment?
This
heartstopping glorious adventure?

There’s strong like patriarchy
strong like institutions
strong like two-billion dollars a day
military occupations, spiked
with genocide, anchored
in neoliberal greed, buttressed
by terror, designed to deliver 200-volt shocks
on contact.

Then there’s the strength of what flows.
Tears, grief, memory.
Blood, energy, breath.
Collective action.

The strength of what moves us
opens our throats, ignites our hips
unleashes our voices.
Puts the move
back into movement, distils the motion
from emotion.

Movement strong as a river.
Current of joyful resilience.
Wave and curl, crash and swirl
patterns that constantly change.

Movers who channel each day
the courage of divers
to plunge again
into this churning water.

Thankful
for what yields results, curious
about what does not.
Building lung capacity to finally embrace
the wholeness of our struggles
exactly as they are.

Some moments, life asks of us:
What do you hope?

There’s hope like a battleground
hope that’s all soundbites
hope that rehashes a thousand manifestos.
What we intend, believe, imagine
what we plan, propose and dream
what we say, expect, pretend, how we think
things should look.

Then there’s the truth on the ground.

What we show up for
each day
with our fearful, angry,
tired, clumsy selves.
With our complex, brilliant,
wounded, kickass selves.

And we grapple with the chasms
of all that’s gone before.
We negotiate the heartbreak
of decades of betrayal.
We push ourselves to replace
but with and,
no with how,
steel ourselves to listen
to what enrages us most.

We stretch our brains and wills
until we feel it,
to hard analysis
until we get it
unpack systems, structures, models
mine the stories, map the data
‘til we know
what works and what does not.
What truly moves us.

Some years, life comes to us and says:
What do you know?
Why we kept at it, for forty, fifty years.
Why we have never regretted it.

That this movement
still moves us
in our guts, our hips, our hearts

That this laughter
this trust
this earned and tried and tested respect
is a house we have built,
brick by brick
and it will hold.

Some mornings life wakes us up
sets our hearts beating
sets our nerves thrumming
warns us
we’re about to leap
into our iciest fear
our largest growth
our most piercing joy.
Some mornings,
We take a huge breath, say
Yes
to it all.

Some evenings, life wraps us round
in the softness of twilight,
asks:
What are you waiting for?

Truth. Justice. Reparation. Healing.
In our lifetimes. In our lifetimes. In
Our
Lifetimes.

Each day, love comes to us and says:
What will you show up for?
What, in the end, is the truth of your heart?
We answer with our bodies.

We show up
for the struggle.
We show up
for each other.
We show up
just as we are.
Precious, flawed
limited, magnificent.
Human.

We show up
for history.
We choose
the power of movement.
We love
by showing up.

Somewhere a donkey has died

Aditya Shankar

Have you ever admired things without names?

Those easily misplaced and rarely fetched back,
Deeply observed but never loved for their strangeness.

Their singular existence has hardly convinced strangers,
Their Ululation like the silent prayers for the absent.

But somewhere a donkey,
The last of our nameless heroes,
has died.

After an attempt to outgrow epoch and time,
Myth and reality,
Place and name,

It lies unidentifiable among the components of the garbage heap,
Doing neither the royal nor the common place act,
seeking neither revival nor resurrection to a
distinct meaning,
achieving neither success nor failure
in the nonchalant protest on tracks to freedom.

Now,
It assembles into itself only in photographs, memories and doubts;
Strangely leaving behind in all of us,
A gaze, wide and dreamy,
Especially when waiting turns everything
to a bit of expectation.

Meditations and merchandise

M I Kuruwilla

Carry a message to your own people, my friend,
Which will be well understood by your people,
Not ours- the creed of the material, phenomental
World as an illusion, you call it, Maya, don’t you?
Concealing but also symbolically revealing
A deeper order of reality. Do I sound philosophical?
You must excuse me. I cannot help it.

This view of things with a deeper reality
At a deeper level is intriguing. I am myself affected
To the extent of thinking of blood and terror
As fantasies, symbols. Isn’t it intellectually
Consoling  to think that violence, blood and terror
Are not real but only symbols of a deeper
Reality. Although I live in a firm word, I move
On two planes of reality- the mundane level,
And a deeper level of mystical yearnings and insights.

Yet the mystique of blood and terror is terrifying
Thing, not consoling at all. Passion and the craving
For power at a deeper level are murderous things.
Call it spirituality of blood and terror, if you
Like. But it is no joke to allow your face
To be blasted. No taking you first by the scruff
Of your neck even.

But I speak of none of those things here, the fear
And dread in the pursuit of Passion and Power.
Let them be. I would rather tell you of other mystical
Properties of violence and bloodletting. Although
We perpetuate violence to see an end to what we hate,
Violence is endless. Like Time. Though Time
Must have limit, time is endless, eternal.

Besides, our relationship with our enemies is
Of both love and hate, in which note a deeper
Dimension. Hatred is in the desire to exterminate
Our caemies. Our love for our enemies is in the care
We take for the continuance of violence........

                                    2
Symbol and blood, blood and symbol. Why only
Symbols, you are asking. What about emblems?
You are right. They are there, when we often
Look at things horizontally, on the surface,
Not seeing the wood for the trees, if there is
Any wood to see. Look at the emblems of our culture
Which we are apt to overrate, but worth
Something, the surrogate and substitute fantasies,
The flotsam and jetsam of this our modern life.
Ponderous definitions!  Let us have some model samples.

Yes the toothbrush, the sanitary towel- the tampon,
That covering for the female back under certain
Conditions. Don’t your Dakshina ladies in their
Shopping expeditions go in search of it – two
To three thousand miles? We may call them universal
Symbols, being so ubiquitous….  Nonsense!
We will stick to them as nothing but emblems.
But what is covered, is it at least universal…
Appetites are universal, passions urges aren’t
They? Possessing uniqueness, individually too?

What universality, uniqueness in a word
Of throw- away tampons and throw-away condoms!
Emblems will always be emblems, But in the rotund
World, baubles too have their place,
Looked at representationally.

All these- dilettantish nonsense! Commodity
Rules the world, someone truly said. The spilling
Of blood is profitable. Next of kin to blood
Is arms - for an orgiastic embrace, the buying and selling
Of which is profitable.

How we forget the realities of life!
Farewell, fantasy symbols and emblems. Yesterday’s
Shopkeepers are now the most expert gunmakers.
The descendants of those who stormed the Bastille
For the Brotherhood of Man are the manufacturers
Of deadly missiles. Three hurrahs for Gallic Socialism,
And four for their Socialist President. Thou shalt
No kill, said the great Jehovah to prophet
Moses. Thou shalt kill, kill and kill again
In Jordan and Gaza. That is the new dictum
Which replaces all of Hammurabi and Moses.
Christ and Gautama. Arms have to be sold,
Blood has to be spilt.

Look! Can great powers survive without arms
And arms-trade? And if they can’t survive,
If they collapse, what is the future of mankind?

And your terrorist gangs- call them guerrillas
Or freedom-fighters- where do they get their arms
From? From the sources controlled by us. We know
The extent of their sources and resources.
We have prescribed the rules and the game
As to who wins, who loses. But the game
Must go on. It is such fun-and so profitable.

To replant the earth with tears

Basil Fernando

What do we live for?
but to let roses grow
and birds to sign
if earth grows dry
flowers do not grow
birds disappear
What is there to live for?
then we should
with our tears
create the rivers
sustain the plants
for flowers to grow
and birds to rest.

If you must pray...

K G Sankarapillai

I remember the day
When the loudspeaker first
Came to the village.
We children reached home late
From school that day.

On the banyan tree before the temple,
Below the tricolour, the flower
Of the loudspeaker bloomed.
High as the head of the single bull
At the temple festival,
With challenging gaze
That ploughed the fields of the mind.

‘Bob Bharatmata Id Jal
Bob Mahatma Gandhi Id jai...’

It was as though the omnipresent sound
Had entered the ears
Of the plantain groves and
The sunken roads.

The deaf man too
Heard the shadow of a sound.
The poor cripple sat up. P
The children danced
In the garden of sound.

The grandmothers had not heard the news.
They still lit the lamps
At the old doors,
And listened for the nadabrahma
In the rhythm of the flame’s dance.
They only heard the lament of their own stars.

TWO

Red flags roared on the banyan tree.

'Inquilab zindabad,
The fields we reap
Are our own, my little bird.’

Hearing the thunder speak Malayalam
The crow and the dove and the jackdaw
Koran arid Neeli and Mate
Jerked awake and spread their feathers.
The peacocks came out of the past
Aid flung rainbows into the future of the village.
It was spring on the tongue
Of the dumb village.
in the graveyard of forgetfulness
Removing the shroud of silence,
Screams rose as long swords.
Memories and dreams
Became ritual swords and ankle-bells.
Martyrdom sounded
Deeper than legend.

The sea of souls roared as loud as loud could be.

The deaf man woke at the sound of the world.
The cripple walked out into the yard.
Oh! Brave new world!

The history of bare-chested elders,
Silent and foolish as the village pond,
Limited and motionless.
The palm leaves that they had treasured,
Old, moribund.
Now...
The cock does not crow
Or the serpent go back
Or the haunts leave
Or consciousness awaken
Or marriage bond tighten
Or music keep its beat
Or sacrifice resound
Without a loudspeaker.

Sound is victory
Sound is ability
Sound is Brahma.

The leaders bathed
In Cambridge or Paris
In Volga or Niagara,
Came back with firm voices.
Sounds of commands in suits and coats
Foreign sounds which stun the ear
Sounds in machines
Sounds worn as weapons.
Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite.
Satyam, Sivam, Sundaram.
Art for art’s sake.

The echo was greater than the sound.

With the shouts of the children
With the exhortations of the comrades
On the other side of the hill,
In the temple,
In the netherworld where the day vanishes,
On the knives discarded by the assassins
Droplets-of Rama’s name.
The city-shaped anthills
Hold no sages.
The lament of the evening prayer,
The chant of the pilgrim.

The temple became one of forgetfulness,
The temple of forgetfulness, a tower of ghosts.

THREE

Modernity came to the village
As Innumerable loudspeakers,
As processions and meetings
As degrees and supermarkets.
Noise-decked desires came
In newer and newer designs.
They shrieked and sang, danced and sobbed,
Screamed and roared, louder
Than the possessed woman.
The sounds of the mother were forgotten
The trees and the ploughed fields
Stopped singing.
The cuckoo and the jackal left.
The pots of the market
Filled with sunlight and moonlight,
The beautiful men of the sound
The beautiful women of the sound
Came with their beckoning nakedness.

The neighbour is envious
Here is the best TV
Here is the soap
That keeps old age away
The nostrum that gives
Eternal and increasing youth
Here is the policy which keeps
The wrinkles away from your forehead
The super-power-colour-guard
To keep the colours of the flag fresh
Or...
To protect forever the four castes and seven colours.
Here is the teak farm
That makes your future tension-free
And here is the gospel according to Dunkel
That gives you the underwear that leaves you free
Here is...here is?here are
The mad flames of sound.

‘Did you hear my voice??
Did she ask that?
But I have only seen her,
Never heard her.

FOUR

Oh lord!
Please take from our ears
The demonic noise of tempting civilization
Remove from us this search for shelter
In the forests of Sound.
Do not grant us again the trick
Of covering the truth
With golden sound.

We want to hear
The footsteps of the wind
The gurgle of children’s laughter
The sigh of the mother
The evening murmur of the grandmother
The voices of dreaming brothers
The quiet flutter of truth
In the silent nerves of the prison
The struggle of the victim
The alarum of the mate
The soliloquy of the ant
Which carries the great weight of the grain
The drums of home-coming

The concert of the cicada
The warning of the friend
The stories that night tells
As she comes with bath-cool body
And the star of sound in her sky of sound
The distant band of the future
We wish to hear, to hear
Ourselves.

Murmured by the sun to the moon
By the moon to the sorrow-laden cloud
By the cloud to the trees
By the trees to the birds
By the birds to the rhythm of the seasons,
And by you, mind, to me,
That silence, as wide as the world
The thin sound of consciousness
That perfume of a new thought
We wish to hear, to hear
The symphony of life.

Translated by Prema Jayakumar

Emotional Overload

David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

How high can our emotions rise,
And how low can they fall?
How far until they cease to exist,
And there’s no emotion at all?

When a tree falls in the forest,
And there’s no one there to hear,
When someone dies in a foreign land,
And we do not shed a tear.

Although we try to share the grief,
We know it is not the same,
And though we feel a little guilt,
We’re tired of taking the blame.

When kids in Brazil are shot in the street,
And Romanian orphans die,
And so many go without shelter and food,
We pretend it is just a big lie.

We’re caught in emotional overload,
We cannot react; we just stare,
As news of disaster is spoken of,
And people are homeless somewhere.

Don’t tell me I’m speaking of others,
I know we have all done the same,
We say it is none of our business,
Because we do not know their names.

A lack of emotions? It’s overload,
"I’m helpless; it’s useless to try”,
Let’s muster our strength and our courage,
And once again learn how to cry.

Women dancing humanity into the future

Jane Evershed

Women dancing humanity into the future
Our essential selves
Will not be ripped from us,
We shall not morph into a sot
Drunkenly parading
As half human,
Half robot,
We shall not.

We remember
Our deep earth roots
And from where
Real life shoots up

My umbilical chord
To this earth
Shall not be cut
By those who seek,
To sow discord
My soul is not theirs
To hoard.

I shall not be separated
From natures solid rhythm
By a synthetic value system
Constantly pumped into me
By globally integrated radio and TV.

And more than that,
I seek to use my higher powers
Which I brought with me at my birth
Which allow me amazing capabilities
To serve the higher purposes
Of this earth.

And more than even that
I have a universal law on my side,
To readily arm myself with
Day and night,
Which states that darkness
Can always be lit,
And where there is light
Darkness fails to penetrate it.

This brotherhood in evil I reject

Basil Fernando

You say we are brothers
And we have a common enemy
You come with blood in your hand
To prove to me you are fighting for me
As brothers we must jointly hate the other
You tell me
In hate what brotherhood
Can there be
Must I teach my child to hate
The way you say you do
This brotherhood in evil I reject
This I will not teach.

I’m Not Involved

David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

Yes, I was there, but not involved,
I never said a word,
When they were tortured for their Faith,
My life of ease, preferred.

I stayed inside my Comfort Zone,
And did not make a move,
I did not have a thing to say,
And not a thing to prove.

Religious leaders said, “They’re wrong,
And everyone must die,”
They asked me what I thought of it,
But I had no reply.

I didn’t want to state my view,
Although I had a choice,
I should have chosen right from wrong,
And spoke up with my voice.

But I just stood there very mute,
And didn’t say a thing,
When they were sentenced to their fate,
My conscience felt a sting.

And now I live with what I’ve done,
And when they come for me,
I will not have a thing to say,
Nor have a place to flee.

Just Society

Basil Fernando

You burned the buildings
And put me in prison.
You threw their infants into fire
And called me inhuman.
You murdered in open daylight
And blamed me for wanting blood.
You turned my neighbour into a refugee
And said I was responsible.
You looted his hard-earned property
And called me a thief.
You imprisoned him and killed him
And named me a brute.
You befriended thugs and I their victims,
But you made me the accused.
I who was grieved
At my schoolmate,
My neighbour, my friend,
My guru and fellow worker,
When he died, when he went into hiding,
When he fled to escape the mob,
Suddenly departed to other lands
Empty handed—I, who cried holding his hand
At the harbour bidding him farewell,
Am now to bear this insult.
 
You say it’s peace
When you put the blame on the innocent.
You say its stability
When you protect the culprits.
You say it’s honesty
When you hide the reports,
And hush the inquiries,
Spreading falsehood among the nations
Having a laugh at a restless land,
Divided and wounded.
You sleep well
But I cannot sleep.
You eat well
I have lost all appetite.
You think you are successful
I know wounds of defeat
Will long live with me,
And the memory
Of this insult.

The Lessons Of Another Time

David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

The lessons of another time have visited today,
(Let’s listen well and maybe we will learn),
As history repeats itself and leaves us in dismay,
(Let’s listen well and maybe we will learn).

For wars have always been around and never go away,
(But we are deaf and dumb, and cannot see),
And many are the innocent caught up inside the fray,
(But we are deaf and dumb, and cannot see).

The children are the innocent, the elderly the weak,
(How long will this abuse be theirs to bear?),
As nations fight with nations, but their leaders only speak,
(How long will this abuse be theirs to bear?).

The lessons of another time are rarely ever learned,
(We stumble on and very often fall),
And when we think that we have won, we find that we’ve been burned,
(We stumble on and very often fall).

We grieve and bow in mourning for the children of our youth,
(A legacy of hate is what we leave),
We tell them of the world around, but seldom tell the truth,
(A legacy of hate is what we leave).

And so the scene is played again and circles one more day,
(They listen well, but they are deaf and dumb),
And elderly and innocent are still the ones who pay,
(They listen well, but they are deaf and dumb).

A holy man was having a conversation

Anonymous

A holy man was having a conversation
with the Lord one day and said,
“Lord, I would like to know what
Heaven and Hell are like.”
The Lord led the holy man to two doors.

He opened one of the doors and the
holy man looked in. In the middle of
the room was a large round table. In
the middle of the table was a large pot
of stew, which smelled delicious and
made the holy man’s mouth water.

The people sitting around the table
were thin and sickly. They appeared to
be famished. They were holding
spoons with very long handles that
were strapped to their arms and each
found it possible to reach into the pot
of stew and take a spoonful.

But because the handle was longer
than their arms, they could not get the
spoons back into their mouths.
The holy man shuddered at the sight
of their misery and suffering.

The Lord said, “You have seen Hell.”
They went to the next room and
opened the door. It was exactly the
same as the first one. There was the
large round table with the large pot of
stew which made the holy man’s mouth
water. The people were equipped with
the same long-handled spoons, but here
the people were well nourished and
plump, laughing and talking. The holy
man said, “I don’t understand.” 

“It is simple,” said the Lord.
“It requires but one skill. You see
they have learned to feed each
other, while the greedy think only
of themselves.”

60 Years

Vanessa Dwyer

60 years
Have lessened
Tears
But not
Dried them
Away

60 years
Allayed some
Fears
Why can’t
We make them
Stay

60 years
Celebrate
Peers
Offering
A better
Way

To treat a man
A woman
Even
A child, too

Because
Human Rights
At 60 years
Exist to
Celebrate
You

Vengeance Is Mine

David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

He rode into town in the back of a truck,
A man on a mission, who, hoping with luck,
Would find the young zealots who murdered his Dad,
And vowed he’d take vengeance with all that he had.

Was late in the evening, and chores had been done,
He’d gone to the bedroom to tuck in his son,
His father was sitting there, out on the porch,
When Klansmen came ‘round with a cross and a torch.

Without any feelings, they shot the man dead,
They lit up the cross and then watched as he bled,
A small band of cowards, they started to run,
When out of the door came the shots of a gun.
He rode into town in the back of a truck,
To look for those Klansmen, who, running amuck,
Had caused so much heartache and caused so much pain,
The ones who found pleasure when someone was slain.

He found them encamped on the side of a hill,
The look on their faces, it gave him a chill,
The sight of pure evil is all he could see,
There, hid in the bushes behind a large tree.

He cried to the wind and to God up above,
Who spoke to the mountain and gave it a shove,
As boulders rained down like a God-given sign,
He heard a loud voice, saying “VENGEANCE IS MINE!”

Now all is so quiet, and all is so still,
No more will those Klansmen be able to kill,
The only voice now is the sound of the wind,
Like tormented souls of the ones who had sinned.