She said she can’t write
In light of current events.
Like what’s going down
In Ferguson and the Middle-East
Is making her sick of words,
Sick of thinking her words
Won’t turn this tumultuous
State of affairs around.
I do pray she writes again
and mends a creative soul
broken by the news reels.
I pray she knows that hope
Still lives among us.
Our hearts and minds have synthesized
from concern to in-difference.
Briefly, the red-stained headlines invoke
spontaneous outrage, briefly…
Only before the turning page
followed by the next day’s live events.
Few are chilled by the stunning stats,
shattered limbs in black body-bags,
scintillating, debris-strewn streets,
And in other news this fine day…
Here is a poem written in honor of the new pontiff Francis I and his recent election as the first non-European pope in over 1000 years.
Notes from St Peters square
In the midst of a chilly nightfall’s
We wait as children of God; pilgrims to the
Within the watching colonnade,
hands are wrapped and mouths move silently
over a simple rosary.
We gaze upon a lonely chimney, waiting for it to
signal the arrival of the light.
For that old flame which glowed within this theocratic
micro-state has dimmed.
It must be relit by a new light that will burn a hope in.
‘‘Look upon yon chimney breaks!’’
‘‘It be a holy smoke so white!
Like the very heart of Christ!’’
In a colonnaded square of cheers and screams,
clustered with the ignited hearts of burning devotees.
The light from the window of that St Peters balcony erupts;
its doors open:
In this dark, wet night of the world, a candle dances again
that will burn a divine hope in.