Southern Border

At night it’s colder
but they cannot see
as you crawl,
following the stars
on your back
the few items you carry,
in your arms a sleeping child
each step taken means 
one step closer,
each step taken means
finding sanctuary,
lights ahead betray their search
if your found then it’s back
back to the street gangs
who raped and killed your sister
back to the slums and mean barrios
where life is cheap
sold for a pittance 
paid for with your body
until one day you are used up
a lifeless rag that was once a person

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Tea and Memories

I sitting here, 
drinking tea,
Earl Grey tea

steeped for two minutes
sugared, 
two to be exact
with a splash of milk
enough to change color
but not to make it cold.

Tea in the afternoon,
Dad drank tea
morning, noon and night
his was with sugar
Ma’s was with milk
in this cup I carry both,

it was given to me,
what I will pass along.
Sipping the last bit
a burst of sugar
hits the tongue

I think of his lunch pail,
a thermos filled with tea
enough for three cups
two breaks, 
one lunch
the only time off his feet
the machinery quiet

tea does that
breaks the routine
becoming a routine
my routine.

Nighttime in Qui Nhon

Above helicopters
circle like vultures 
propellers beating out their call,
sounding like a million bees
they spout their lethal projectiles 
raising a cloud of dirt and dust,
the angel of death has come to call
rockets flare out whooshing
no red glare, 
no bombs bursting,
just a spark of fire then gone
finding targets below
enemy hidden in a green tangle 
burrowed deep underground 
waiting out their Passover.

Five Haiku’s

My Child

Her tears were falling

washing memories away

of the empty crib.

Pilate

He sits at table

reaches for the blood red wine

with his blood stained hand.

Good Friday

Day has become night

the condemned slowly die

the people walk away.

Maundy Thursday

Bread is broken open

dirty feet cleansed with his tears

as wine becomes blood.

Love Lost

In the dim moonlight

I reach out to feel your warmth

in that vacant space.

I’m Back Blogging, I think.

It has been too long since I sat down to write. It has been a combination of things, both great and small that has kept me from my writing. For the last few months I have been struggling with a bit of depression that has worn me down. I really have tried to climb out of the valley, to see that bit of sunshine on the horizon, but the darkness is still there. Like a hungry wolf it lingers waiting to pounce when I am at my weakest and once it has sunk its teeth in, I can’t seem to thrust it off. Of course there are several factors and the big one for me is trying to find my way in this strange new world of being retired. I know that some folks can’t wait to retire, the fantasize about laying on some warm beach all day, or being able to play golf or just lay around without any expectations. No more punching the clock, no more having to work in a place that sucks the marrow from one’s soul. It sounds great and I thought I had a plan, then like all good plans, life gets in the way. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a difficult transition if we stayed up in Massachusetts. There I had my colleagues who would have helped me to find a new way. I had Grub Street, that would have kept me on track with my writing, taking courses that would have greased the mental wheels as I continued to put on paper my thoughts and feelings. In other words, I had stuff, I had the necessary social and intellectual connections, where now, there are none. Moving to Delaware, into a new state, a new diocese has been difficult. I’m not a big extrovert and I don’t get out making friends all that easily, so I have struggled finding my way. As I have watched my former parish continue to move into a new direction from afar, I sometimes feel wistful and sad, wondering what it would have been like had I not retired. Honestly, I miss the liturgy, the weekly celebration and the daily work of being with the people in the ordinariness of life. In this new diocese, I feel like an intruder of sorts, a virus that should be shunned so that nothing changes the lives of those here. Going from Diomass to Delaware, is like going from a corporate size parish to a family parish, there is a different mindset in the smaller diocese. Like a family parish, there are the matriarchs and patriarchs who one must engage with. Not only that but one needs to deal with the bishop and here, in Delaware, the bishop is new and he has his vision, which may or may not work as well as he hopes. It is just another layer in this labyrinthine world of the church and I have not felt, nor have I desired, to be a traveler along these roads. Yet, here I am, stuck in the middle not knowing what to do or where to go. Sure, I’ve done some supply, preached a couple of times, even helped with a book study, but that is like giving a drop of water to a thirsty soul, it doesn’t help. So the big question for me, is what do I do with what I have been given? That’s great because at this point I have no idea. This week I will attend my final writing class at Osher, well let’s be honest, it really isn’t a class in the real sense, it’s just a group of older people who write and hope what they write makes sense. This class has not helped to motivate me at all even though I have tried to get something down. So for the next few weeks, months maybe even year, I will endeavor to sit my butt down and just write. It doesn’t have to be pretty, or even make sense, all I need to do is write. I have plenty of books on writing to read, I have books on poetry, memoir and all of that to help motivate and guide me. Another way to help me out of this funk is getting back to my blog that has laid dormant for the last few months. Just lay it out there for all to see, lay out the struggle and the pain, the deep insecurities as well as the darkness that lingers.