Month: February 2025

let us say that today 
we will play this game by a different way
and not call it a game at all
but calling it by its true 
much more needed name
we will catch 
children in our arms...
the poor from falling through cracks...
widows in their grief...
the displaced and terrified in our sanctuaries
we will rise early to catch the sunrise,
remembering once more this day,
gift, all gift, not from Caesar but of a gracious hand
we will catch up with old friends
left out in the fields past suppertime, 
and we will listen with ears like hearts,
catching second and third chances, 
and joy, we will give up hiding,
we can wait no longer to hear you squeal, 
caught you! 
as we rise from our coffined corners 
just in time to catch a shooting star in both eyes 
and the bits of crumbs that fall from our tables
like hope each day,
will be caught and gathered and baked into bread
to be placed on altar doorsteps
and we will say we remember when 
the world wasn't flat and 
horizon lines and spits of land were just another place 
to catch anchor and call home
as we learn to release ourselves gently
without ripping
from the people and things that have hooked us
for death in this world.

I'm trying to square something.
A headline from out of the Big Apple
says the President may cut aid
to Jordan and Egypt 
if they do not accept displaced Gazans.  
Sounds to me like the President expects 
those people over there to be good neighbors.

Meanwhile, here at home, the President
says we the United States of America
will no longer make room for the displaced.
Take your tired, poor, huddled masses
yearning to breathe free, 
the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, 
and go back to where you came from.

(Unless you came from Gaza, 
then go to Jordan or Egypt.
Having financed your destruction, 
we will now roll the dice and 
win ourselves a fortune 
where you once fed your goats 
in the morning sun)

This is the Golden Age of America,
we lift our lamp and 
proclaim you will do what we say, 
not like we do.

How big has our own head become.
I fear that soon it will be so big
we will be                        

                                       displaced.

(Who, then, will take us in?)

Maybe Emma Lazarus will rise from her grave,
lead us back down to the shore.
Maybe our oars will still be there, 
dried and cracked from years of forgetful living on land
but still intact 
we will board our ships and shove off, 
if only to return and remember our own great need 
for home and country.