http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006M6NOKE/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

Hystericus

My e-book available at Etopia Press

We Will March

Preached on Pride Sunday June 24, 2007

            How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?

            The lament of exiles…

            After the Babylonians conquered Judah, they drove many of the Jews into exile, forcing them to go into Babylon, to assimilate them. This, however, did not work. Perhaps the Jews were too resilient and stubborn to abandon their ways, or perhaps they were never fully accepted into mainstream Babylonian life, marginalized because they were different. Thus they formed a potent subculture that preserved their faith and national identity.

            Because the Jews were different, the Babylonians often made fun of them, their culture, and their “wild beliefs” about one, true God. They demanded that the Jews sing them songs, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion,” they said, laughing.

            And the Jews hung their lyres on the Willows there in Babylon, unable to sing a song of home in a foreign land. They felt crushed, totally devastated, and they thought it would be better to kill a newborn child than to raise the little ones in captivity.

            But, it is obvious that these Jews found some way to give voice to their despair because of the very existence of Psalm 137, often titled A Hymn of the Exiles in Babylon.

            This need to sing in the face of adversity seems to be as old as human community. Wherever you find people trying to oppress the human spirit, you’ll find songs: songs of despair, songs of hope, songs of endurance, and songs of joy and celebration.

            Frederick Douglas, a former slave and abolitionist, an author, an orator, an editor and statesman wrote about slave songs in his autobiographical Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglas, 1845:

            While on their way (to work), the slaves would make the dense old woods, for miles around, reverberate with their wild songs, revealing at once the highest joy or the deepest sadness. They would compose and sing as they went along, consulting neither time nor tune. The thought that came up, came out, if not in the word, in the sound; and as frequently in the one as in the other. They would sometimes sing the most pathetic sentiment in the most rapturous tone, and the most rapturous sentiment in the most pathetic tone. This they would sing, as a chorus, to words which to many would seem unmeaning jargon, but which, nevertheless, were full of meaning to themselves. I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do.

            Many of the slave songs vocalized dreams of freedom and escape and became the basis for many of the African-American spirituals that we commonly sing today. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot was composed by one-time slave of the Choctaw Indians, Wallis Willis, in the old Indian Territory in 1862. Some latter day scholars have claimed that this song and another composed by Willis, Steal Away Jesus, had some hidden lyrics referring to the Underground Railroad.

            Sometimes the work songs and field hollers were simply tools for survival. In his book Wake up Dead Man, folklorist Bruce Jackson wrote:

            The large plantations in the U.S. South were based on West African agricultural models and, with one major difference, the black slaves used work songs in the plantations exactly as they had used them before they had been taken prisoner and sold to the white men. The difference was this: in Africa the songs were used to time body movements and to give poetic voice to things of interest because people wanted to do their work that way; in the plantations there was added a component of survival. If a man were singled out as working too slowly, he would often be brutally punished. The songs kept everyone together, so no one could be singled out as working more slowly than everyone else.

            After the end of the Civil War, this heritage of singing carried on in the voices of sharecroppers, railroad workers, and prison chain gangs.

            Listening to the rare recordings of these songs, one will find the same musical and vocal expressions that distinguish Ragtime, Jazz, and Blues, which have, in turn, had a tremendous influence on Rock and Roll, Hip Hop, and other forms of popular music. The echoes of oppressed peoples resonate throughout our culture in countless ways through many obvious and subtle applications.

            Perhaps a lesser-known by-product of the old African slave songs can be found in the tradition of military cadence, also known as Jody calls. Jody is the guy who stays home while you go to war. He dates your girlfriend, drives your car, and kicks your dog. Many laments and threats are sung about ol’ Jody.

            Though many cadences are military specific and are often vulgar and violent, the most endearing ones echo the sentiments of the slave songs: the drudgery of mundane work, the desire to go home, and the dream of release, even a release through death.

They also sing about living under the scrutiny of a tough task master (in the case of Jody calls, a drill sergeant) and the resentment and fear he often inspires.

A typical cadence goes like this:

I don’t know why I left

But I know I’ve done my best

And it won’t be long

‘Til I get back home

Got a letter in the mail

Go to war or go to jail

Sat me down in a barber’s chair

Spun me around, I had no hair

Used to drive a Cadillac

Now I pack it on my back

Used to ride in a limousine

Now I’m wearing Army green

Dress it right and cover down

Forty inches all around

Nine to the front and six to the rear

That’s the way we do it hear

Used to date a beauty queen

Now I carry an M-16

Ain’t no use in looking down

Ain’t no discharge on the ground

Ain’t no use in going back

Jody’s got your Cadillac

Ain’t no use in calling home

Jody’s got your girl and gone

Ain’t no use in feeling blue

Jody’s got your sister too

Don’t you kick my dog around

Don’t you kick my dog around

And it won’t be long

‘Til I get back home

It is hard for me to imagine Army life without Jody calls. In fact, the marching and running cadences that punctuate daily life in all four branches of the military are among the very few things I miss about my experience in uniformed service. The Jodies built unit cohesion and inspired a high degree of esprit de corps, attributes of a highly effective organization.

Jody calls also facilitate survival, especially in unit runs. They are used to help the soldiers regulate their breathing and to keep their minds off the pain of strenuous effort, a very practical approach to developing an effective regimen of aerobic exercise: if you can’t talk while running you have stepped into anaerobic exercise, depleting of much-needed oxygen. The rhythm keeps the group moving as a single unit, adding a resounding thud as numerous feet hit the ground simultaneously instead of the cacophony of random footfalls.

The voices in unison create a common identity in the see-saw of call and response, which actually mimics the age-old preaching styles of many African-American churches.

One of my most moving experiences in the Army happened the day my unit, the 197^th Infantry Brigade (MS), was first alerted about being deployed in support of Operation Desert Shield/Desert Storm. We were all scared and worried about the future, and we knew we were going to a foreign land, into a sort of exile, facing a tedious and frightening future with the knowledge that there was a good chance that not all of us would return alive.

We marched to the brigade parade field to receive the official word from our commander, and while we marched we sang our hearts out, all of our voices raised with gusto. I have rarely felt such a high degree of comradery. We all knew that our futures were wound up in each other and that our individual survival depended on our collective effectiveness. We were more than a unit; we were a community of soldiers, and I couldn’t see how we could be defeated because of how we shouted and sang with one loud and thunderous voice so sincere it brought tears to my eyes. Well, not only to my eyes. Many of us were crying on that short march that day: afraid, worried, hopeful, and thankful.

Our first sergeant started singing an old African-American spiritual: A-Amen, A-Amen, A-A-Men, Amen, Amen.

Between Amens the leader chants lines of encouragement:

(sing it louder now)

(praise the Lord now)

(Everybody)

(Sing it soft now)

(Hallelujah)

(Praise the Lord now)

            We all knew that this was more than a Jody call; it was a prayer, a prayer as sincere as any hymn sung in church. I know that I felt the Holy Spirit swelling in my heart that day, and I saw it in others too.

And because of this experience, I can see the strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity, a strength that defies oppression and fear. So, I am thankful for the forebears who cried their despair in work songs, for those who prayed for deliverance and strength in field hollers, and for the ones who sang for freedom while imprisoned and working hard labor in those chain gangs. Because of them we have a whole heritage of resilience.

So, I would be negligent if I failed to mention the endurance of Oklahoma’s glbt community.

We have endured soaring triumph and crushing defeat in the last several years. We won the right to fly our pride banners on the light poles up and down Classen Boulevard. We saw the U.S. Supreme Court strike down sodomy laws aimed specifically at homosexuals, and we saw the state of Massachusetts legalize same-sex marriage and then, recently, uphold it when their legislature voted against a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage. We have seen other states open their laws up to civil unions and anti-harassment policies to protect glbt people from discrimination in the workplace and housing accommodations.

On the flip side, we have seen a fervent and organized response from the religious right, which, unfortunately, has chosen to foment hatred and intolerance toward glbt people. Here in Oklahoma, we have borne the brunt of this movement toward repression, and we have been tempted to knuckle under the pressure, to move to other states, to silence our voices, and creep back into the closet. We saw the passage of State Question 711 to ban same-sex marriage and to deny the “benefits of marriage” for gay and lesbian couples. We have seen the Oklahoma State Legislature declare glbt people unfit for parenthood after the passage of laws that do not recognize legal adoptions of children in households headed by gay and lesbian couples. We have also seen children’s books depicting gay and lesbian households and/or characters treated as nothing better than obscene. Yes, we have been singing the blues in this red state, and we have felt like exiles in our own homeland.

Yet, we have persevered. We saw the re-election of Jim Roth and then his appointment to the Oklahoma Corporation Commission. We saw the election of Al McAffrey to the Oklahoma State Legislature as a representative from House District 88. We have seen the emergence of the Diversity Business Association and have begun to taste the fruits of economic leverage in their assistance with our Pride Festival and their various community projects. The Cimarron Alliance Foundation brought a traveling exhibit of the Holocaust Museum to Oklahoma City to educate the public about the costs of intolerance and persecution, and we had a massively successful community summit meeting earlier this spring, a meeting that brought together community activists and organizations for the purpose of building cohesion through education.

All right, you might say these things weren’t accomplished because our community gathered together to sing, but this resilience taps the same wellspring of the human spirit that oppressed and repressed peoples have tapped into for ages and ages. It is more than optimism; faith keeps the hope alive, the dream for freedom and equality for all peoples.

And today, we will march! We will gather as a community of diversity, and we will rejoice in our identities. This year is the twentieth anniversary of the LGBT Pride Parade. We will dance in the street, we will sing songs, and we will tell the world that we have not gone away.

 We’re still here!

And why is that?

Because you cannot silence the human spirit. Like Jesus said, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.”

Pride Jody

I sure am glad I came out

Now its time to sing and shout

Shout a note for those who cry

Shout a prayer for those who died

Shout a song for those who toil

In the struggle for freedom

Freedom, I say Freedom

Freedom, I say Freedom

Hold your head and hold it high

People Pride is marching by

We don’t want superiority

We want Equality

And it won’t be long

‘Til I sing a Victory song

Freedom, I say Freedom

Freedom, I say Freedom

And it won’t be long

‘Til I sing a Victory song

3 Slams by Paula Sophia

The Legendary

The Elephant Man and The Homecoming Queen

The Elephant Man attracts attention

He’s quite the rage as long as he stays in a cage

Or up on a stage

Barriers and Distance

Separate, isolate, and exploitate

The people who stare at him glare at him

Voyeuristic, morbid fascination and loathing

Yet, they cannot see what he desperately needs

Human touch

Affirmation

Validation

A kind word

Acknowledging his humanity

Could save him from insanity

The Elephant Man has a soul

A heart hidden beneath layers of grotesque flesh

Contorted, seized by disease

Subhuman, inhuman

Alien

His intellect

His emotional capacity

All too human

The need for love, fellowship and family

The soul is not the flesh, a thing of beauty

But pale in a spirit way

Because the flesh shelters the soul from warmth

The Elephant Man shivers in the dark night

Waiting for the dawn of a new day

Hoping a gentle spirit will bother to see

How he could really be

The Homecoming Queen attracts attention

She checks her hair

Staring at a blemish, an eruption of imperfection

Reflected in the cold glass

She moves away

Distance conceals it

She buries the blemish with make-up

Knowing she can’t make up for the hole she feels in her soul

Upon a pedestal she has no room to move

Walking on a balance beam

Lifted up for all the world to see and admire

She can’t even perspire or stumble

She has too far to fall

But that’s not all

She’s well aware of jealous sneers

Concealed in smiles

Revealed by teeth bared, lips stretched

They want to be like her

But they don’t know the price

Perhaps they’d think twice

If they knew how lonely she feels

People won’t stand next to someone

So perfect, so pure, so demure

Except to use her to make themselves look better

She walks a narrow path

Unable to unfetter her true desires

The Elephant Man and The Homecoming Queen

Can’t wait to be seen as they truly are

Sitting in the gym, lights flashing

The music, the rhythm

They watch others dancing and touching, together

Wondering whether or not someone might invite them

Into the mainstream of life

Into the community

To feel the unity of souls

The Homecoming Queen saw the Elephant Man sitting alone

She saw him breathe, a moan, a heavy sigh

Wondering why he couldn't ask her to dance

The Elephant Man saw The Homecoming Queen

Looking at him from across the room

Even she, the perfect one, couldn't keep from staring

They got a glimpse

Kindred souls bound by loneliness

Lacking the courage to take another step

Unable to break the bond that unites them like no others

They dance the dance of loneliness

Alone with each other

Samson and Sophia

Samson and Sophia
by Paula Sophia Schonauer


In the novel Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow, E.H. Henderson is a rich American, a pig farmer, a loud and boisterous man with a large physique. In many ways he exemplifies the ideal of American success. Though he acts rashly, at times lashing out in destructive anger, his heart is full of good intentions. In his fifties he confesses to his wife that he would like to become a doctor, a healer. In this aspiration, he hopes to appease the aching in his soul, a need that drives him to Africa, the birthplace of humankind. This deep need articulates itself in an echoing mantra, “I want, I want, I want…”

Henderson describes himself as having a military temperament. He loves the discipline of military life, its regimen and sense of duty. And, he is the epitome of a soldier. Even in middle age he is able to defeat a much younger man in a wrestling match. His strength and lust for life are unbounded.

The Arnewi, the first African tribe Henderson encounters, are an impoverished people. They have suffered through an extended drought, and their riches are dwindling. Their cattle are dying of thirst because of an infestation of frogs in the community cistern. For some reason, the frogs are seen as a contamination, and it would be bad medicine to let their cattle drink from the water they inhabit. The tribe won’t even touch the frogs. Though they are a troubled people, they exhibit a deep happiness, a sense of enlightenment that Henderson envies. He realizes that they may have the answer to the soul’s aching need.

The Arnewi recognize his lust for life, and they welcome him with open arms. The tribal Queen Willatale, a Bittah (a person who was not only a woman but a man at the same time, thus exemplifying a balanced human being) recognizes that Henderson suffers.

“Oh, it’s miserable to be a human being,” he says. “You get such queer diseases. Just because you’re human and for no other reason. Before you know it, as the years go by, you’re just like other people you have seen, with all those peculiar human ailments. Just another vehicle for temper and vanity and rashness and all the rest. Who wants it? Who needs it? These things occupy the place where a man’s soul should be…Lust, rage, and all the rest of it. A regular bargain basement of deformities.”

What Henderson is beginning to realize, I think, is that he is on the verge of losing his strength, the ability to dominate, and he wants to find some kind of vital replacement to make this decline gracious and meaningful, not merely a sense of wasting away.

Henderson wants wisdom…He sees it in Willatale, and he expects that she knows the secret. But, tragically, he only gets a dim sense of what it means to be wise. He becomes obsessed with the frog infestation and rashly concludes that the removal of the frogs is the best way to restore vitality to these beloved people. As an outsider, he sees himself as perfectly suited for the task. He constructs a bomb with a flashlight and some gunpowder and throws the explosive into the cistern. The resultant blast does kill the frogs but it also destroys the cistern. Henderson realizes the rashness of his act when he sees the water flowing into the parched land, leaving only yellow mud and dead frogs.


Now, for me, it is irresistible to see Henderson’s bomb as a metaphor of American military strength. An effective weapon meant to liberate an oppressed people, but too often used without wisdom, without reflecting on the possible consequences both good and bad.
I see the removal of Saddam Hussein as an act of benevolence on the part of President George W. Bush, not merely a cynical ploy for the control of Iraq’s oil reserves. Saddam was the frog that poisoned the cistern. His removal was necessary for the welfare of the Iraqi people, but the display of strength aptly described as “Shock and Awe” has destroyed the cistern of Iraqi national identity that contained the possibility of a unified nation.

All right, I didn’t mention the war in Iraq as a political point as much as the latest example of the rash use of strength without informed reflection and the enlightened consideration of consequences both short term and far reaching. It seems that the use of strength is an intoxicating temptation that humans have been dealing with for millennia.

In his book Skinny Legs and All, Tom Robbins uses the ancient enmity in the Middle East as a backdrop for the revelation of wisdom personified in the Dance of the Seven Veils. Each section of the novel lifts a veil of ignorance based upon assumptions about history and religion. Ultimately, he reveals the common origin of the Semitic and Canaanite peoples in the form of Pales, the ass-god.

He writes:
“The country of Palestine, which had been called Canaan, was named for Pales.
Pales was a deity. The ass-god. Or the ass-goddess. Usually he was male, but sometimes she was female, and sometimes its gender was a tad ambivalent.
The name Pales was Arabic, having come out of Libya, but the Hebrews love the long-eared bisexual no less than the Arabs. Tacitus, the Roman historian, wrote that the Semites fell into venerating the ass because had it not been for wild asses, they never would have survived in the desert. It was probably more complicated than that.
The ass was a savior who provided milk, meat, shoe leather, and transportation (what the Bible calls the “golden calf” was actually the golden ass, since there were never many cows in the Levant).
The ass was also obstinate, silly, and sexually crude.
Embodying all of those characteristics, Pales was trickster, fertility spirit, and sacred clown, presiding over humankind’s unruly passions, giving mortals what they needed, but not before having some fun with them.” (Jesus riding an ass into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday takes on a whole new dimension of meaning here doesn’t it?)

The Dance of the Seven Veils takes place in a restaurant called Isaac and Ishmael’s in New York City. The restaurant is located across the street from the United Nation’s building and had been bombed by terrorists. The owners, Spike Cohen and Roland Abu Hadee are the Jew and Arab, the respective representatives of Isaac and Ishmael.

Spike Cohen laments the exploits of Joshua, the heir to Moses and the key figure in the conquest of Canaan, “I quote to you from the Old Testament. Joshua carried off all the livestock of these cities (meaning the cities of Canaan) but all the people he put to the sword, not sparing anyone who breathed. Joshua plundered, Joshua burned, Joshua massacred, Joshua wiped them out, Joshua put to death, Joshua turned his forces, all were taken by storm…annihilated without mercy and utterly destroyed, Joshua subdued, Joshua slew, Joshua left no survivors. In your Christian Bible you will find this nice story of this nice guy Joshua. You think I could go on living when I wear the name of such a man?”

Spike Cohen understands that the actions of Joshua may be the root of all the hatred in the Middle East, which the indiscriminate use of strength shed blood and nourished the seeds of war for millennia. He sees how Joshua would be perceived in the present day, as a harbinger of homicide, a leader who fell under the spell of the Final Solution, a man guilty of implementing genocide.

Roland Abu Hadee weighs in the on the Christian Crusades, “In the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries, while Europe wallowed in its Dark Ages, while Europe was ignorant and impoverished and altogether barbarous, there was enlightenment in the Arab lands. The Arab world was cultured then, rich educated, and in its fierce, dreamy way, refined. Mathematicians strolled in rose gardens. Poets rode stallions.
So what happened? Why, my dear, the Crusaders paid us a little visit. The Crusaders came. Christian knights from Europe. And they massacred men, women and children-Jew as well as Arab, it should be told: all who were non-Christian. The Crusaders destroyed the intellectual and scientific life of western Asia and northern Africa. They burned the library of Tripoli, and the reduced to rubble scores of scientific and artistic centers. Such a tragedy. Such a waste.
Noble Crusaders. Holy Crusaders. They pulled the Arab lands down into the much pit of Europe. And the Arab lands have never recovered. No amount of oil profit can buy back their enlightenment. How different conditions would be today in the Middle East, how much saner and safer the entire earth might be, had those Christians not defiled a civilization too advanced for their arrogant little minds to understand.”

The underlying message here is that the indiscriminate use of strength has led us into a struggle that seems to have no end, that we must learn to turn to wisdom so that we have a hope of ending a cycle of brutality and vengeance that has gone on throughout recorded human history.


In Proverbs chapter 8, it is interesting to note that wisdom and understanding are personified as female. This is not a surprise, really, since wisdom (Sophia) has a long historical precedence as being a divine representation of femininity.

Zeus produced the goddess Athena from his own thoughts, and Athena represents justice and balance, wisdom and understanding. She is also the patroness of weaving, crafts and the more disciplined side of war. She embodies the thoughtful use of strength.

In the Proverbs text, verses 22 through 31 assert that God created wisdom at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of old, “Ages ago I was set up, at the first, before the beginning of the earth…”

This passage reminds me of another, John 1: 1-5, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God; all things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

If one looks at these passages through the binary understanding of male and female, masculine and feminine, one might see a contradiction, that Divine Wisdom and Christ are competing for the same spot in the order of creation.

And it seems that throughout the history of monotheism, the Judeo-Christian-Muslim default has been to suppress the feminine, even to despise the feminine. We all shudder at the way the Taliban have suppressed women and girls, and we can remember in our own recent history that women were thought of as little more than property, having no rights of their own apart from their husbands, and having no political identity.
I believe that this suppression of the feminine has led to the suppression of wisdom and the over-reliance upon strength. Seeking consensus and emphasizing dialogue are often seen as the methods of wimps. I mean, look at how we have demonized France in the past several years because of their lack of support for the War in Iraq.

And, in our own country, demonizing feminists, pacifists, and homosexuals has become a tool of political strategy that creates a pervasive homophobia that has become a powerful wedge device in local and national politics, a wedge issue that has kept those in power who have used strength unwisely.

I believe that homophobia is the fear of diminished strength, the fear of losing one’s masculine vitality. As a result, we have become a results oriented society where the most expedient tool seems to be strength, often at the expense of wisdom.

One of the names of Christ is Yeshua, which is Greek for Joshua, which is Jesus in English. Yeshua means, “He will save.”

In a sense, Jesus is the second Joshua, the one who restores order to the chaos wrought by the first Joshua. Where Joshua used the sword to gain victory, Jesus refused to be proclaimed as a military Messiah. He resisted the temptations of the devil, one of which promised him all the kingdoms of the world, “All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” He could have been an emperor like no other, the true ruler of the earth if he had taken up the sword. One of the disciples, Simon the Zealot, begged Jesus to lead a revolt against the Romans and restore the glory of Israel under King David. Judas was probably motivated to betray Jesus so he would have to reveal himself as the Messiah and thus vindicate the oppression of the Jews under Roman authority. When Jesus died on the cross, he totally refused the power of this world and embraced a different kind of glory, a glory that transcends death and ends the cycle of violence perpetuated by the need for vengeance.

In this way, Jesus showed us that Wisdom and Christ do not contradict one another. They coexist, together in one body, in one manifestation.

The Nag Hammadi Library, a collection of scrolls discovered in Upper Egypt in 1945, may provide insight into the divine orientation of Jesus Christ. In the Sophia of Christ (Wisdom of Christ) God the Father consorted with the Great Sophia, and together, they revealed the first begotten androgynous son. “His name is designated, “Savior, Begetter of All Things. His female name is designated All Begettress Sophia.”

I believe that the struggle for gender equality is a manifestation of the impulse toward wisdom, a balancing of the masculine strength that has ravaged our earth for too long, and I believe that the struggle for glbt equality is an offshoot of the general struggle for gender balance, not only in our culture and politics, but in our own psyches.

The re-emergence of goddess-centered religions may be a reaction to this deep spiritual rift that has gone on for too long. Perhaps the popularity of The DaVinci Code is part of a psychological venting of tension produced by this growing awareness of this spiritual dichotomy between male and female. The tectonic plates of the psyche are beginning to make a measurement on the Richter scale of consciousness.

The effort to achieve balance is exemplified no better than the movement in the Roman Catholic Church to deify Mary, to proclaim her as a co-redemtrix to her male counterpart in Jesus Christ. I applaud this movement because it recognizes the need to acknowledge the divine feminine, but I think it doesn’t go far enough because it keeps the masculine and feminine figures as separate beings. What we really need is to achieve balance in one unified figure.

I believe a good measure for progress in the balancing of strength and wisdom can be seen in the reaction of people when we refer to God as She. If people wince at this, then it may indicate that we have not achieved true gender equality, not only in the political and economic arenas but in the realm of self as well.

Oh, back to Henderson…

Henderson’s constant companion in his trek through Africa is Romilayu. He becomes Henderson’s trusted friend even though Henderson tends to bully him. He constantly tries to counsel Henderson toward moderation and literally and spiritually saves Henderson’s life because of his superior skill in surviving the desert. But Romilayu’s most important role is to convince Henderson to act wisely rather than to claim revenge on his enemies. Henderson finally listens to Romilayu’s advice when he tells him that “Revenge is a luxury.”

As we struggle for balance, it is important to remember Romilayu’s advice. Revenge is indeed a luxury, a luxury we can no longer afford. Revenge continues the cycle of violence through the abuse of strength. The wise one does not succumb. The wise one turns the other cheek. The wise one loves one’s enemies…

The wise one loves others and loves one’s self, the masculine and feminine embodied in us all.

Of Rumors and Rabbits

A rumor is irresistible
Like a fuzzy little bunny

People love to nuzzle up close and get a dose of gossip

That sweet morsel of story
They swallow it whole
Lose control, regurgitate the tale

And watch it hop on down the bunny trail

Hippity hoppity, hippity hoppity watch that tale grow

Rumors eat away at the facts

Like bunnies, they invade the garden of knowledge

And reap the fruit of perception

           

Hey, we can set semantical traps
Catch them in the act
Tag the survivors

Watch them in their natural habitat

Then, we can introduce a predator

            The truth

Oh, those poor little bunnies
They never hurt nobody

But, with the mourning, there comes a fog

Creeping from the bog of memory

Our bunnies have become rabbits
Running away with our imaginations

From a distance we can’t see the difference

            Between reality and fabrication

As for truth…

Who says rabbits aren’t carnivores?

We found the carcass in the garden

Pomegrenade

Hey, what'd you say?

Did you just Dis me?

Your verbal grenade, made to destroy

Shrapnel sharpened for the kill

To condemn me to hell

To the depths of despair

To the dark, shapeless void

            The Abyss

The Woeful World of Dis

I plunge to a place beyond the embrace of hope

To feel the cold shoulder of apathy

While you happily go on your way

                                                                       

I’m wounded, angry, resentful…

Disillusioned by your lies

Disheartened by your betrayal

Dismissed by your Dispassionate Display

Disaffected

Disrespected

Dishonored by your lack of faith

Disgruntled by your denial of hope

Distraught by your lack of love

My life in Disarray

Discouraged

Distrustful

Disabled from Discrimination

Dissociation

I’m bleeding…

I want to Disengage from community

Nurture my rage

And stoke this Dispute

I want to Discharge my Disgust

Create an arsenal of Disdain

I want to Discredit your accusations

Disavow your power

Disallow your freedom

And quench my thirst for vengeance

I’m alone…

I’m stranded in the desert, now

Deserted

Parched from isolation

Dizzy with desolation
Stumbling through this

Dark Night of the Soul

Where I remain, lost in oblivion

Praying for a Dispensation of grace

For this winter of Discontent

To be made glorious summer

For my barren tree to bloom

For something to nourish me in this land of doom

I’m searching…

Disoriented, I lack direction

I can’t find a connection to life

How do you love your enemy

How to find forgiveness, growth and meaning

I’m tired of leaning on hatred

A lump in the dust, round and smooth

In the gloom I assume it’s a grenade

Something made especially for me

A divine intervention

An opportunity

I grasp…

White-knuckled grip, ready to throw                                                                    

Ready to let my fury go

But this grenade bursts in my hand                                             

Bleeding, oozing

Leaving its mark on me

Spatter on my face

Seeds spilled all over the place

Famished

I eat…

The first seed –

Bland with Disinterest

The second seed –

Bitter with Disappointment

The third seed –

Disarms me, sweet with promise

Dissuading me from surrendering to despair

The fourth seed –

Disburses a taste of hope

Dispels my confusion

Sheds light in the dark

The fifth seed –

Dispenses medicine for my aching soul

Tells me to Disconnect from my victim role

The sixth seed –

Discernment shows me

Hate is a Disease

Distributed with ignorance

Distracting us from truth,

We are all Children of God, each and every one

The seventh seed –

Disendows my claim for revenge

Disciplines my anger

Disabuses my inclination toward violence

The Dissonance it creates

I plant…

Nurturing forgiveness

An orchard emerging

Surging through my soul

Bearing fruit

Resurrecting my ability to love

A Discovery

What Happened to Our Tribe?

Our Big Gayborhood

The Winter

The Word as Sacrament

For poets, it’s the Word as sacrament…

We gather to hear the Word

Which has been held deep down inside

Where it cannot abide

It must be spoken

This, the true sacramental form

The outward and audible sign of

Inward and Spiritual grace

The grace of the Word is free

The Word enlightens our minds

Stirs our hearts

And strengthens our will

And we will speak!

In the Beginning was the Word

And the Word was spoken

And through this, all things came into being

And without the Word, nothing has being

The poet knows this

The poet lives by the word

            The sacred word

And the poet desires to share the word

Because the poet believes in the word

If you doubt the power of words

Read the first chapter in a book called Genesis…

LET THERE BE LIGHT

And we are trying to echo that ancient command

Trying to say something that stirs

The Universe or (at least) someone’s heart

                        To life…

Something astounding

Something incredibly moving

Like...

Let there be

POETRY

A Rainbow Reflection

Our Big Gayborhood

The Plunge

You say I’m getting ready to take a plunge

A lunge straight into hell

I might as well jump off the Empire State Building

But I say, it wouldn’t be so bad

A good time could be had

And right now, as I contemplate the trip

I feel the pull of gravity, magnetic

A gigantic force
I no longer have the will to fight

It ignites a curiosity

Enticing me to see if I could survive

So dramatic a dive into
What could be oblivion

Or might I get caught in the weather
Float like a feather

In the drafty winds blowing about

Here and there, up and down

Hovering above the town
Where the lights twinkle bright

A delight to my sight, calming my fright

As I lean further than sanity allows

I’m not sure what kind of trip I’ll have
Such is life

Terminal or Eternity

Suspended in a moment

Forever in a breath

Nothing like life or death

            Being

I look down to the street below

Hypnotized, no time to rationalize

I fall

I see you at the window on the 83^rd floor                 

You yell, “How’s your trip to hell?”

I shout back; the wind in my lungs

Riding the breeze, feeling release

The ease of burden left behind

“I don’t know, but the view looks good from here.”

Tolerance

I do not feel invited to the banquet

The communion rail is a fence you stand behind

Dispensing the sacraments, blessings and forgiveness

Your eyes grow wide as I approach

I see your tight smile, your upturned nose

The muscles in your neck flex

When you offer me the bread

Your hands tremble as my lips sip from the chalice

And I begin to doubt

The Feast of the Saints unsettles my stomach

I’m sick, bloated with depression, feeling rejection

After drinking from a cup poisoned with tolerance

Your tolerance is endurance, condescending

It does not persecute

Yet, it does not accept

Your tolerance does not deny, nor does it embrace

It doesn’t stand for something

And it doesn’t take a risk

Your tolerance is cowardice looking for a place to run

A silence of smoldering resentment

Waiting to explode

Your tight smile, your wide eyes, your upturned nose

They betray you

And don’t ever think, not even for a moment

I don’t see your furtive stares or hear your whispers

I feel the squirm in your handshake

And I understand the meaning of your stiff hug

Your tolerance is a glass ceiling

A wall of silence

A circle of fear

A subtle message that says

You’re not really wanted here

Tolerance is neither hot nor cold

Neither soothing nor refreshing

Tolerance is lukewarm

Fit to be spat out

The Genius Of The Crowd: Charles Bukowski

Photo by Matt McNeil oklappraiser@aol.com

The Wind

 

Oh, I long for justice

But with you, I know it’s going to be Just Is

I know I’m justifiable

But you laugh and say

Only just...if...I...able... myself

To see you as a human being

Not a freak

I scream and shout, run about

Up and down the street all day and night
Asking for equality

But you don’t hear my voice

Listen to my words

Perceive my being

We must seek common ground
But you say

We have nothing in common

Not today or any day

I do know this...

After we sift through all the mud and shit and dust and rubble

Dig down to one essential thing

You cannot deny that I draw breath

(As you do, too)

And that’s enough for me to know

We are the same kind of creature

Because we breathe

We share the air

Air is free

You can’t grow it, age it, or refine it
You can't define it, monetarily

You can’t order a select cut of USDA choice air

Air is free

Take a breath

You must know, you breathed the same air
I breathed moments ago

But don’t worry, I’m not contagious.

You can’t turn into me nor I into you just by sharing air

Unless, you believe like the ancients did

In our breath resides the spirit

Breathed into us by God

And when take our last breath

The spirit leaves, joining with the breeze
Since we'll be together
One way or another
We might as well start now

We must understand
When we die, we expel our spirits into the wind
To move what we will move
To go where we will go
And, you know, only God knows
Where the wind blows
How it goes
Whom it moves

So, listen

There's a message
We hardly ever hear
Stop the clutter, the clatter

All the senseless noise

Draw near

In Communion

Oh Come Union...

Be together in peace

In Community

Oh Come Unity...

A prayer
Carried in the wind
To the ears of God