Where's the Love?

Graffiti walls,
Rundown buildings;
Homeless people,
Gangs aren't pretty.

Where's the parents?
Where's the families?
Where's the love
That should be in this city?

Drugs and booze,
Much depression;
God, please show your love
To this lost and lonely nation.

A Ballad of Badness (You’ll soon see why)

Once upon a time ago
in a land of grapes and juice,
there lived a man who couldn't stand
a little bit of muse.
One day he ran across a very
burly, long haired cat,
but he was late in seeing
and the burly cat went splat.
He cried a very long, long time,
until his wife said stop.
He looked around but couldn't
find the woman or the shop.
"The shop," you ask. "Where did it come?
It wasn't there before."
But that's because his wife had died
when running through the door.
The man went slowly on his way,
for he was late for work.
But his manager had fired him
for calling her a jerk.
His day got worse as it progressed,
until he went to bed.
But then his dreams picked up the slack;
he wished that he was dead.
But death comes in a blinding flash,
not in a boring dream.
But even bullies from his youth
weren't even quite that mean.
His life is such a tragic tale,
a dull one we might add.
And this ballad I have writ
is really very bad.

Letting Go

Standing one the edge of the highway gazing
at the panoramic view of the
tundra and the Alaska Range—
snow capped mountains, spruce trees, and fields of
fireweeds and lupines and
forget-me-nots—
a sense of pride and awe
flows through my veins.
Deep within my heart is a haunting
I am helpless to understand;
it is a privilege I have not been granted.

As I breathe in the wild air, I feel alive,
but alone. Overwhelmed by the immensity
with no one to share this moment.
It’s a hard country to live in.
Only the strong survive.
Those less fortunate
soon return home, where it is
easier. But not me.
I leave for other reasons.

The land holds tightly to my heart—
a vise that won’t let go.
It wrenches away a part
causing searing pain as I
prepare to embark on a
new life.
But I let it go—
my only gift to a place,
I love too much.

Taking one final look,
collecting my last memories,
I walk slowly back to my car, feet
grating across the gravel.
And shutting the door, I start my car, and
looking ahead I drive away,
never to return.

Escaping

Lost in a world only I know,
my mind drifts as an autumn leaf
carried along by the wind,
taking me places where time is void.

Standing in a field of snow,
I am enveloped by silence and my down parka—
a solitary figure in an world untouched—
almost afraid, even, to breathe.

The snow looks soft, a smooth pillow,
polished by wind
until all edges and ridges
are round.

And quietness hangs upon us, the land and I,
like a gentle, but sturdy hand
resting on my shoulders,
until my senses fade
into nothing;
and I’m left with
only
my sight.

If I am still, and try real hard, though,
I can hear a bird,
a Solitaire,
enchant this world with it’s sweet music—
like Tumnus to Lucy
in those magical woods

It was winter there too, I think.
Always winter, never Christmas.
Yet it seemed so calm;
a stark contrast from that world of chaos
she came from—
bombs and death and
quarreling;
evil brothers who always tease.

Perhaps that is why I am here today,
looking for my own escape.
a chance to rest, to remember what
Love is, the same Love that came
One silent night.

But how can one find peace,
when all the world screams of
pain and sorrow?

News from another earth,
of car bombs exploding,
shredding buildings,
stealing life from those
trapped in the middle.

But it remains too distant,
like the mountains that stand proudly,
only inches tall,
guarding the horizon,
until they suddenly loom,
massive and daunting,
before your eyes.
And you hear about the school,
just a few miles from home.
Twelve students dead, and one teacher.

It makes your own life,
the deadlines,
the meetings,
the projects,
seem so trivial and pointless.

That is why, perhaps,
I do not move from where I am.
To move would only spoil
the beauty and magic
of this perfect, winter day
in the woods of my own
imagination.