Thursday, June 25, 2015

Is This All That Politics in America Amounts to?

Politics in American is squabbles over who is the "real" victim. Fetus or Mother? Christian or Muslim? Republicans or Democrats. Just take a look at Men's Rights Activists: whining and whining about being victims -- as if being a victim is manly. Because American politics is about this one issue, it is boring. Oh, and the legal system doesn't help: harm (i.e., victimization) must be proven in civil cases.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

A Quotation by Heinrich Heine

Mine is a most peaceable disposition.  My wishes are: a humble cottage with a thatched roof, but a good bed, good food, the freshest milk and butter, flowers before my window, and a few fine trees before my door; and if God wants to make my happiness complete, he will grant me the joy of seeing some six or seven of my enemies hanging from those trees.  Before death I shall, moved in my heart, forgive them all the wrong they did me in their lifetime.  One must, it is true, forgive one's enemies-- but not before they have been hanged.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Two Poems That I Wrote This Morning

Actually, the first stanza came to me last night as I was falling asleep. I knew I needed to get up and write it down, but I was so tired... I was mildly surprised that I remembered it this morning.  I'll probably tweak and re-tweak them (like I do with everything I write) over the coming days and weeks and months and even years. Here they are:

The Torture Never Stops

I woke this morning
From a dream of blood flowing freely
As my desire for a razor ebbed.

Separation of hand from arm
The stab of knife into gut
Wishing to just finally lay down and die.

These maybe old hat,
But today’s unsought freshness
Distracts from past transgressions and petty sins.

* * * * and:

A Life of Meaning

Sure, I do it to myself
Setting some x against some other y
A rampaging r against an innocent q
Omni bellum from a to z.

Is there some kernel of me
Above and beyond pulling strings
Making me twitch and cavort
Before some old rugged cross
So as to look away from today’s troubles
To what? To whatever? Does it matter?
Is it all just an exercise in cowardice
To quash curiosity and imagination
Because Life sometimes hurts?

Sure, I do it all to myself
Even if I do sometimes complain.

* * *

And if I am as I appear to be
A swamp and sometime desert
Would chanting some ancient magic
Till the day I die
Make it all go away and
Bring peace and love
Punctuated only
By the occasional foray into hell?
A metaphysics read out of
Passing moods and lost tempers.

Or do I need a kind word
With a gentle hand on my shoulder
A simple presence to remind
This time I do not stand alone?

Or is it a matter of laying
The foundation of heaven
In the fires and torments of hell?
Courage and victory are not earned
With kind words and gentle hands.

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