April is National Poetry Month and we want to hear from East Shore’s poets. This Sunday we celebrate our creative writers.
Hope
Author Unknown
Has it burned out on its stage,
In a fire and fury of individualism?
Or is there one last breath
In this moment… on breath?
Can we stop competing for
Who among us is right
Or solely privileged with the truth
Where are you Universalist?
Will heaven rise up again in us?
Is there no hell, or, no heaven?
The fight to preserve heave is
In the hands of, you, Universalist
Are we now left fractured by a million, no three?
Or is there a single truth for which we all strive?
IF God is One, a singularity, then where do we stand?
It must only be together, united as One…
Will hope rise again in this age of narcissism?
Is this a battle to the death, best MAN wins?
Alone with nothing by incinerated dust of all
The good burned during the battle, to keep our privilege, our wealth?
Or, is it true that all are created equal?
With a needed re-writing of this declaration.
Our heritage has a burning ember –
A birth mother upon which to build a flame.
A global community of hope,
Signifying more than nothing on this rock.
A rock that will not be silent –
We must decide to be good,
To be or not to be, with the best “self” we can be.
Because the alternative trumps all
If we do not, in this moment, breathe in the good
And out the poison gas of our
own exhaust
The biggest challenge is to face our own mortality,
And still choose to be truly good to each other
When it truly does not benefit any-one,
Beware the one ring that united them all
Or, so we have learned from Tolkein.
So that, instead we can practice love and be good.
Wealth, power, privilege, and our
Own narcissistic story, is the last breath
Continuum
by Barbara Cheatham
That woman over there is planting
seedlings down in rows and
weeding ‘round her marigolds
Presently she’ll stand and
press a hand against her back;
her face is shadowed by a battered hat.
There Is pain; she has a cancer.
by the gardener or her daughter,
the marigolds will bloom without her.
Why, then, does she bother
when it isn’t going to matter?
Layers of Knowledge
by Jeanne Lamont
Understanding racism is like peeling an onion
First, most of it grows deep in the ground where you can’t see it
Use your strength and sever its roots to pull it into the light
Seeing the tunic, the outer layer, is just the beginning
Peeling each scale layer gets harder to tolerate
layers of unequal and separate
of culture exploited and wombs stressed
of pipelines to bars and shot hands up
now gerrymandering as the new Crow
You must keep peeling the layers
Going deeper in your knowing.
The stench will overwhelm
peeling the layers of intolerance and you will cry
Once you have exposed the onion
the smell of injustice is in your skin, in your hair, in your eyes
No matter how hard you try, it cannot be washed away
It is part of your home long after you cannot see it
Understanding racism is like peeling an onion
It is part of the recipe of America’s melted pot
Moon Shine
words by Wenda Collins
music by Eric Lane Barnes